Voldemort's Last Spell
by Louis IX
Summary: Voldemort intended to kill the whole Potter family, but something unexpected happened. Now, the Dark Lord must face the result of a severely twisted Prophecy as well as a very old... thing. What history can Harry have after this? What history can he make?
1. Homo Neanderthalensis

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL  
-or-  
Harry Potter and the Mark of Cain**

Summary: _1981. Voldemort intended to kill the whole Potter family, but something unexpected happened. Now, the Dark Lord must face the result of a severely twisted Prophecy as well as a very old... thing. What history can Harry have after this? What history can he make?_

Genres: Action/Adventure – _as well as other topics not on the Genre list (if you come from Mastermind Hunting, you'll recognize them)._

Rating: T – _for violence, swearing, and issues relative to procreation. This story will contain historical facts and behaviour models not in usage in our "civilized" society, as well as ideas about religion that are quite... undogmatic. Remember that it's a fiction, and don't sue me if you don't like it, I merely write this for the fun of the readers – and my own. Besides, following Ben Franklin's saying, one shouldn't be bitten by the word "dog" on a piece of paper – although this is disputable… but I digress._

Disclaimer: _I don't own anything you might recognize. The Harry Potter universe belongs to its owners, and this story is written only for enjoyment; as such, I may own the plot and some non-canon characters and locations, but that's all. This story is labelled as Alternate Universe, and will contain data from the official books, but some facts and characters are going to be adapted to my needs._

_Additionally, someone told me the first chapter of my story resembled a book from J. Auel. I can tell you that all of it came from my mind, and that no copyright infringement was intended. I don't claim ownership of the various fantasy realms and historical facts that will be crossing over this story either. And, if you find out that I like Civilization (the video game) from this story's first chapters, note that I don't own this either – except my own copy._

**Prologue  
**_posted November 7__th__, 2005_

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The spell killed James Potter.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The spell killed Lily Evans-Potter.

"AVADA KEDAVRA!"

The spell should have killed Harry Potter, but it didn't, and the snake-faced man calling himself Lord Voldemort looked at the crib in wonder. He stepped forward and moved the linen around, but there was no trace of the baby.

Voldemort had felt the pull of magic when he had cast the spell the last three times. The very last draw had been more than usual. He even felt quite drained of his considerable power because of it. Taking a vial from his pockets, he swallowed the energizing potion.

He then looked at the just deceased mother thoughtfully. Had she done something to protect her son? He knew, thanks to his spy, that she had been a Charm expert, with a passing interest in Runes. Too bad she rejected his offers to join...

He was so lost in his thoughts that he missed the sound of a person walking in.

"So, _that_ is what Tom Riddle has become?"

The Dark Lord whirled around, seething at the use of his muggle name. The newcomer was a little old man standing in the doorway, leaning on a gnarled staff. Despite the large cloak and hood covering most of his bent figure, Voldemort still noticed a white beard and twinkling eyes, not unlike Dumbledore's. His wand aimed at the seemingly unarmed man, he addressed him. "I am Lord Voldemort!"

"Voldemort... Vol de mort..." the man pronounced thoughtfully. "Doesn't that mean Flight of Death in French? Or rather Theft of Death, in fact. Thievery is much older than flight in human civilization." He stopped tapping his chin and looked at the self-proclaimed Lord. "Did you steal something from Lady Death, Tom?"

"For the last time," Voldemort started, yelling, "I am Lord V-"

"Voldemort, I know. A pitiful anagram if I ever saw one. Especially as it is a complete sentence, meaning that you have to say "I am" twice if you want to introduce yourself. As I said, Pitiful."

The Dark Lord was on the verge of cursing the man badly, but he was also quite clever – or he wouldn't have reached his current status – and something in the newcomer's stance suggested a hidden power. And, now that he was calmed, he realized that he knew the voice.

"Who are you?" he asked suddenly, his eyes narrowed.

"Who am I? That's a very good question. Can't you answer it by yourself?" the unknown man asked. He straightened up, gaining a full foot in height, and the cloak's hood fell back, revealing chiselled features and piercing eyes.

Voldemort gasped. "YOU!"

The man tilted his head, and smirked. "Me, indeed."

* * *

**Chapter 1 – Homo Neanderthalensis**

_**120000 years ago...**_

The storm was frightening. In the tribe's memory, never had the sky poured so much water and light. While the shaman was looking outside for a sign, the others were huddling in a corner of the cave. They had been lucky to find one in the first place, and doubly so since it hadn't been occupied by dangerous animals. However, they didn't have any dry wood to start a fire, and the cold day wasn't going to help their health.

The cave was located in one of the hills the landscape consisted of, facing a flat bit of trees-covered land. It thus offered a good view of any incoming threat, and, incidentally, a good view of the storm.

Everybody jumped when a lightning bolt landed nearby, much larger than the others and much louder. Several trees exploded from such a violent manifestation, and their remains were ablaze for a couple of minutes, slowly doused by the constant downpour.

The rain kept falling for a long time, and the shaman looked back toward the frightened tribe members. They were hungry, not having eaten anything for a couple of days, and the children were dosing off in the women's laps, only awoken by the numerous thunderclaps.

'If only one of them was curious enough to stay with me.' he thought. 'It would be easier to find a successor, then.'

He looked back towards the rain-covered countryside, and a lull in the storm outburst allowed him to hear something unusual. Well... it wasn't unusual at all, but he hadn't thought of hearing it outside, especially under such rain.

A small child was crying.

He looked back at the tribe and checked with his memories, but the group was whole and he frowned.

"Torg!" he called in the usual slow and guttural speech patterns his brethren spoke.

The strongest hunter advanced. "What, Sagh?"

"Come with me." the shaman ordered, and Torg obeyed. The shamans were respected in the clans, and the lone tribe thought they were lucky to have one, even if Sagh was quite old. However, if he didn't find food soon, their respect toward him would drop as well as his life expectancy. More than one shaman had been killed by the members of his own tribe in order to appease the spirits. Everyone knew that, and everyone accepted it. It was the natural order of things.

The old shaman and the hunter walked carefully out of the cave, the former guiding the latter towards his destination. The shaman didn't really need the escort to move around, but anything could happen in the uncharted wilderness, and he had to be cautious. They got nearer and nearer, until their beacon was louder than the spattering of the rain around them. The two men recognized the sound and hurried toward it.

After moving several branches and wood splinters, they found an unusual scene.

A baby was crying. A youngling, it seemed, but a strange one. Sure, it was human like them, but it seemed... clean, as though it just came out of the purest pond. And the beast skins that were covering him were thin and soaked, and... white? It wasn't even a colour they had the habit of seeing around, and the two men looked at each other in wonder.

The baby's cries, though, brought their attention to the scene again, and they noticed the other unusual thing. A large bear, one of the deadly animals prowling the countryside, was resting near the baby, its claws having ripped in the baby's leg. For the men and for the animal, one would have considered the wound a mere scratch, but the white cloth around the baby was already red around the injury.

Torg recoiled at the sight of the great animal, but Sagh held his arm and motioned to the scene again. They carefully prodded at the unusually-coloured bear and found that it was really dead. Dead, and black. Blackened, and still fuming. And a strong smell was coming from it.

The shaman understood what had happened, and quickly thanked the spirits, and the baby. Had he not been there, the animal would have been devoured by carrion eaters before the tribe could have located it. However, because of the rain and the crying baby, the prayer was quick. The shaman would have time to thank them later – on a full stomach. He quickly went down and carefully disengaged the baby from the rubble. After motioning to the hunter to stay there, he ran in the rain toward the cave.

Once there, he prayed the spirits loudly to get the others' attention before giving the baby to the women, instructing them to take an especially good care of him. He then led all the hunters and even some non-hunter males toward the place where the burnt animal rested and, under the downpour, they all managed to haul it in the cave in record time. They then returned to the site to fetch the few dry branches and splinters remaining from the lightning-induced tree explosion.

Generally, eating the meat of a predator was difficult since the muscles were usually taut and hard to masticate. In this case, though, the large animal had been thoroughly roasted, surely from one of the lightning bolts, and it was perfectly palatable. After taking care of the baby, the shaman sorted the bear's parts, removing whatever wasn't edible from its body. The women followed suit, cutting and serving the meat for everyone.

Their stomach full, there was still meat for several days, and the members of the tribe thanked the spirits with their shaman. Unlike some of the other tribes, they were still unnamed, and they decided to use the incident as an identification token – like the Tribe of the Wolf they had crossed the previous spring, named that way because they had adopted wolf cubs many seasons ago.

Fed and heated by the circumstances, the Tribe of the Bear then vowed to take care of the providential baby, whom they called Har.

* * *

_**Five years later...**_

"No, Har." the old shaman said, taking the stone from the boy's hands. "You have to crush the petals like this, and-."

The old shaman coughed suddenly, interrupting his explanation. Noticing this, the young boy took a few plants from a pouch on his side and gave him. The man nodded weakly and chewed the plants to recover a proper breathing.

Har looked at his mentor and wondered how long the old man would be able to teach him the ways of Nature. Sagh had crossed the limit of 30 springs, and all members of the tribe knew he wouldn't be able to live much more than that, especially crippled by his coughing fits.

Since their adventure with the bear, the tribe had moved around, meeting other tribes and animals, and had survived against all odds. As soon as Har had been able to walk and talk, he had shown a keen interest in the shaman's work, and Sagh had taken the curious boy under his wing, teaching him all he knew. In the facts, Har could already replace the old man in all the usual aspects of his work: guiding the tribe, finding a place to rest, finding food. The rest of a shaman's job was to gain knowledge about plants and animals. Some plants were usable as food, while others were poisonous, and the knowledge of which was what made the difference between a healthy tribe and a dead one. Other plants were usable to heal wounds too. Har had an example of Sagh's work permanently etched on his right leg: three large scars were going from his hip to his knee. He had been told the story of his discovery numerous times, and knew he was lucky to have survived the encounter, and doubly so as he wasn't crippled at all.

There were also numerous other signs on his body, which were too unusual to be scars – except the strangely-shaped one on his forehead. When they had met the Tribe of the Cave, one of the few sedentary tribes, he had understood a bit more his markings, without having a full explanation. The Tribe of the Cave inhabited a set of large caves, and they used animal blood as well as charcoal against the caves' walls. Under their shaman's ministrations, the blood and charcoal suddenly took life and became animals and hunters!

The rupestral paintings reminded Har about his strangely coloured "scars" and he understood it was the same thing: drawings. His drawings didn't leave when he bathed, though, contrarily to the paintings on the walls or on the painters' hands.

After a few discussions with Sagh, the two of them had come to the conclusion that it was a manifestation of the spirits, and they let the subject drop.

Hearing the sounds signalling the hunters' return, Har shook his head to clean it from stray thoughts. Sagh was unable to move away from their cave, and Har stood to welcome the hunters and to inspect their booty. It wasn't much, though, and he frowned, knowing that they would have to move away soon or the winter would catch them.

Har, being acknowledged as Sagh's heir, designated the parts of the meat that were eatable and the ones that weren't. Between those, he made a secondary sort to get the pieces that animals were able to eat. He then gave those to the tribe's new addition: a pet wolf.

Their last meeting with the Tribe of the Wolf had been fruitful, and they had exchanged pelts against a well-trained female guard wolf. Har had immediately taken a liking to the animal, to the point of naming it – Lil – and they had often kept guard together. The other kids were still afraid of the large animal, and the adults were wary of it, but Sagh and Har had deemed the animal not only interesting, but also vital for the tribe's development. And it had been proven true quickly, as the wolf had warned them of incoming wildlife threats several times already.

Har returned from the meat sorting to see Sagh coughing into his hands. After the coughing fits, they both looked at the blood in the old man's hands. Har understood the solution to his current dilemma, and Sagh confirmed it with a nod. The old man was dying, and he had to be left behind. In a rare display of affection, he hugged the man, a lone tear forging its way on his cheeks.

The next day, Har brought Torg and the oldest woman, Shia, to the shaman's side, and he told them to listen to Har and to leave the place before the winter could take a hold of them. They didn't have enough pelts for all of them to survive a harsh winter.

The two adults understood and nodded solemnly. Har nodded as well, and repeated Sagh's packing orders to a subdued tribe. An hour later, they were gone, never to see the old shaman alive again.

* * *

_**Six years later...**_

Har was running. He was running as if his life depended on it. Which it was, in fact.

Blad, the head hunter since Torg's accident last winter, had missed the beast, and the wild boar was chasing after him. Har was losing ground, but he arrived near a tree with low branches and hoisted himself up at the last moment. The surprised boar looked up at the man-child that had evaded its just fury, while keeping its direction and speed. The noise it made when its head struck the tree trunk made Har wince. The boar's spine had snapped, and it was barely moving, slowly dying.

Har called the hunters, and they gave the beast the mercy blow before dragging it towards the autumn camp. Har didn't have to scold Blad: the two of them knew that things like this could happen. It was the natural order of things.

Years of running and generally surviving in a harsh environment had also brought changes in Har's silhouette. Despite being taller than several of the other members of his tribe, he had developed a healthy set of muscles. However, he was relatively late in some other parts of his development, and had just experienced his first puberty changes.

As young shaman, he was also in charge of the tribe, and the women started to look at him with an interested eye. Several came to his bed, and he knew why. After all, there wasn't much privacy in the camp, and he had seen the others do it as well. The first times were hesitant and messy, but he quickly understood the mechanics and joined the nightly game like the others.

It was the natural order of things.

* * *

_**Seven years later...**_

Harry looked at the green-eyed little girl playing with the wolf cubs and smiled. Contrarily to most of his tribe members, he still had all his teeth, and was still growing. He was now reaching the impressive height of 6 feet and 4 inches, a full foot taller than Blad, while most of the others barely reached 5 feet. The constant outdoor activities made him strong as well, and he was often able to participate to hunts and miscellaneous strength contests.

The girl, named Lia, looked at him and smiled as well. Har nodded and looked at the wolf cubs and their nearby mother. The guard wolf had suddenly left the camp one night, only to return a few days later. In the meantime, the clan had heard wolf howls around the site, and had even thought to leave. Lil had returned, though, and had given birth to four cute cubs several months later. Despite being trained as a guard wolf and accepting humans' food and affection, Lil surveyed her cubs closely, even growling when her cubs complained of the humans' attentions. Strangely, Lia was the only one able to take one in her little arms without them complaining.

Har took his stone club and headed out of their summer cave near the sea, intent on finding an appropriate stone for his new project. The tribe had visited the decorated home of the Tribe of the Cave, and he had had an idea about "portable images." He had first tried to draw on large slabs of stone, but it was much too cumbersome to carry around. He was now trying to sculpt things in small stones, without much success either: all his tries produced split half-finished statues.

That evening, Lia came to his side while the huntsmen recounted the successful hunt of the day, while eating the fruits gathered at the same time. The six men had successfully caught a dozen rabbits alive, enough to feed the tribe in meat for a few days. Harry had instructed them to kill only the ones necessary for the day's food, and he had quickly built a small cave-like place to keep the ones alive... well... alive.

While hearing the hunters' stories, Har was casting glances at his daughter and noticed that she was absently playing with a branch. Ideas whirled in his mind, and he decided to use wood for his sculpture projects.

* * *

_**Eight years later...**_

The interaction with the Tribe of the Fish had gone badly. The much larger tribe had taken possession of Har's tribe summer spot near the sea and the surly fishers had been ready to pre-emptively gut them on the spot. Only through Harry's quick speech and peace offerings in form of statues and dried fruits did they escape death. These men weren't as easy-going as the tribe, and had something strange about them, as if they were actually searching for a fight.

Deciding that prudent retreat was in order, Har led his tribe towards the forest, and they walked for several leagues before finding an appropriate spot to sleep. What they didn't know, though, was that some of the fishermen really wanted to fight, and a small detachment had followed them through the woods.

The attack occurred mere minutes after setting down. The Fishes fought viciously, their bone knives slashing and piercing skin, but the Bears fought valiantly as well, and drove half of the assailants away – the other half being dead. They had casualties as well, though, and Har couldn't do anything to heal Blad. The strong and easy-going man had managed to push back several Fishes and a few enemies were even lying dead near him. Blad was wept upon by several of them, and Kuur replaced him as head of the hunters.

Har was quite sure that the surviving Fishes had left with a few goods too, but the Bears recuperated everything from the dead enemies before leaving the place. Har was sure that the surviving Fishes would try to raise their whole tribe against them, and the less time the Bears spent there, the better. Thankfully, the moon was high in the cloudless sky and they could walk non-stop for several hours.

When they finally reached a set of caves Har had noticed in their long trips around the country, they settled down and, still having several of them guarding the place, they recovered from the forced march.

* * *

_**Nine years later...**_

Har didn't understand.

The Tribe of the Bear was flourishing, the hunters were strong and efficient, the gatherers were well-organized, they had enough clothes, and his small wooden statues interested the other tribes, allowing him to trade interesting things. The problem was that all the tribe's members were younger than him. From the discussions around him, he had thought that 30 was the age when one was "leaving the place" but he had already passed that limit several seasons ago.

Like Sagh before him, he had raised Lia to take his place after him, but she had left the tribe when a particularly strong hunter from the Tribe of the Wolf had asked for her company. She had accepted, and the exchange had involved highly-priced items and soft furs, but Har had felt lonely for a long time afterwards. Between the other children, though, he had quickly found a couple of replacements for him, and had started training them as well. It was two boys, this time, and both of them had green eyes as well.

The problem was that he didn't seem to "leave the place" anytime soon. Several times, he had been wounded by beasts, accidents, or enemies, his skin pierced or his bones broken, but he always found himself perfectly healed in no time. He sure was hungry like hell afterwards, but he was at least fit to hunt his own meals if needed.

Another problem resided with the women. Strangely, the children with the better chance of survival in early childhood were the green-eyed ones, and the girls developed into healthy young women, but he didn't feel any attraction toward them or their daughters. As it didn't fit with the behavioural pattern of the other males of the tribes, he supposed that it had to do with his advanced age. However, when they met the other tribes, he repeatedly found out that it wasn't true.

It puzzled him, but he continued teaching his two apprentices the way of the Nature around them.

* * *

_**Ten years later...**_

Har had decided to finally "leave the place" by himself.

He had already gone way over the age limit, and decided to leave his apprentices in command. After a discussion with the whole tribe, they relented to his views and hugged him, one after the other. It hurt him to leave them, but he couldn't stay there anymore. He wanted to travel everywhere to see if he could find answers to his questions.

He knew he would travel for a long time.

Unbeknownst to him, his tribe would continue to roam their hunting grounds, eventually mixing with the others, and his unique genes – completely unrelated to his long life – would be slowly spread over the countrymen. Even if their intensity would lower with the passing generations, they would bring something to the world. Something new and refreshing. Magic.

_**To be continued in next chapter: Lost Civilizations...**_

_Har, Har, do you hear the call?  
There's something you don't recall:  
You are not from this time, boy.  
Let's just hope you find some joy._


	2. Lost Civilizations

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX  
**Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings._

**Chapter 2 – Lost Civilizations  
**_posted November 11__th__, 2005_

He was tired.

In his long travels, he had visited beautiful places and interesting people, sometimes staying thirty days, other times thirty years. He had quickly discovered that people would become wary about him if he stayed for too long. Others were sad when he would subsequently leave and would give him gifts of some sort to help in his travels. Each time he spent more than a few years somewhere, among the people seeing him away, there were several green-eyed children. Or adults. Several times over the years, when he departed an encampment, a pregnant woman would tell him that she would name the future child after him. Especially if it was a green-eyed boy. That's why, after many _many_ years of travelling around the continent, Har had settled on a two-syllable name: Har-Kan, in homage to his first woman – some things just can't be forgotten.

It has been long years – decades, even centuries – since his childhood in the Tribe of the Bear, and his hair had slowly turned white, but his physical appearance hadn't changed more than that. He was still strong and fit, and apparently immortal. During his travels, he had met wonderful animals and several dangerous ones as well, and, more than once, he had been trampled or poisoned by wildlife. However, the threat always left quickly, carnivorous animals not deeming him edible, and he healed quickly and quietly. And painfully.

He didn't know that these animals, after biting him and imbibing his magical blood, started to display strange genetic mutations, some of which being compatible enough to be transmitted to their future broods.

* * *

To remember his age, he had invented an ingenious system: he raised one finger for each year, and when all fingers were raised, he lowered them all and raised another finger on an imaginary set of hands. It started to get complicated when he started to need two imaginary sets of hands, and he stopped counting altogether when he found that he'd need one more. Even if he had stopped counting his age, though, he had tried to teach his way of counting to tribes he passed on his way, but none had expressed an interest in it as of yet.

After so many years spent travelling, there was still something that baffled him: the sea. He had long since discovered that wood floated on water, and that, by tying several trunks together, he could move on water. At some point in his life, he had also remarked that the wind tended to pull at loose pelts, and he had experimented, tying large pelts to a wooden pole so that his raft would advance by itself. He had never gone far from the coast, though: even if he had learnt to swim at some point, he didn't want to be lost at sea. Like all the humans of that time, he didn't know what was beyond the sea, and there were some tribes of fishermen saying that there were large beasts there. Large beasts like the ones their forefathers told them about. He hadn't wanted to experiment with it.

Until now.

He was tired to live on the run, and decided that he could try to see if the beasts beyond the sea were able to kill him or not. After building the largest raft he could, with raised sides so that the salty water wouldn't soak his reserves of dried fruits, he attached the large and thin pelt the women had prepared for him. He thanked them, and took his leave of the fishermen settlement he had lived the last ten years of his live.

The first day, he still saw the coast.

The first night was eerie, the stars reflecting on the moving water all around him.

The second day, he couldn't see the coast anymore.

The next thirty days were progressively more difficult, as the food reserve began to dwindle. He crossed the path of daunting storms and impressive fishes – he wasn't even sure he could call "fish" an animal larger than him.

He was weaker and weaker, but he still didn't die. Most of his days were spent lying in the sun-baked raft, waiting to fall off the edge of the world. But it never happened, and he began to think that his assumptions about that particular legend were completely erroneous.

After two month of riding the winds, a particularly nasty storm crossed his path, and his small boat capsized. He found himself thrown in the cold ocean's water, and, too feeble to move, he thought that his last hour had come.

He closed his eyes and, a few minutes later, felt death's warm blanket surrounding him.

Wait a minute! Death's _warm _blanket?

He tentatively felt around him, and noticed that there were warm and soft... things around him. All around him. In fact, he was _inside_ a warm and soft thing. Remembering the large fishes, he shuddered, before laughing outright. He quickly stopped, though. Even if he wasn't dead yet, laughing with lungs full of water was very difficult and painful as well. He touched, and prodded, but the whale's mouth was tightly sealed, and its gullet was too small for him to pass through. He was trapped. He finally crossed his arms and waited for death to deign occur.

It didn't happen.

He felt nauseous, had stomach cramps due to his lack of food, and hallucinations due to his lack of oxygen, but he continued to suffer, alive. After an indefinitely long time, he felt the fish's mouth move, and a krill swarm was swallowed. He was pushed to the side by a massive tongue, and the plankton was quickly swallowed by the massive animal. In the midst of the swarm, though, a larger fish was swallowed as well, and swept to the side of the mouth near him. Har-Kan felt the fish, and was pleasantly surprised of finding that, by whatever coincidental circumstances, it had his ivory knife embedded in its lower jaw.

Seeing in that a sign of Fate, he took the knife and waited for the whale to come to the surface again – he knew when that happened because of the suddenly clearer tinge around him; and he didn't want to be spitted in the deepest pits of the ocean. A few hours later, it happened, and he slashed at the whale's lips. As expected, it spitted him, and he found himself in warm waters and near a coast. After coughing most of the water in his lungs, he found himself in a clearer state of mind despite the distressing hunger. He dragged himself to the beach and rested there for a while, just happy to be warmed by the sun.

His rest was interrupted quickly, though, when a wooden ball fell on a rock near his head, the shock splitting it in two halves. Startled, he found himself showered with the liquid that had been inside. Har-Kan felt some of the liquid reach his mouth and he licked it absently. A few seconds later, he realized what it was: food!

Lunging at the split coconut, he drank the remaining liquid and nibbled at the soft insides. After finishing it, he sighed in contentment before looking from where the coconut had come. Noticing some more, he shook the tree and had the pleasure of making two more coconuts fall on the sand. After slamming them on the same rock outcropping the first one had been split onto, he enthusiastically drank and ate his heart's content before lying down on the sun-basked beach, exhausted by the recent events.

* * *

Har-Kan had quickly visited his new place of residence. Quickly here meant that he had explored it thoroughly and that he had found that it was much smaller than the continent he had seen before. It only took him a dozen years to finish his exploration. By that time, he had found several herds of animals and a few human tribes as well. Spending a couple of years in each, he had the pleasure of seeing green-eyed children appear where there weren't before. He knew that _he _had green eyes, and he started to wonder if the appearance of these children was due to his mere presence or not.

Whatever the case, he had other things to think about. The island was always warm, and too small to switch hunting grounds in winter. As a result, the four tribes inhabiting it had settled down on a permanent basis, and had taken the time to personalize their habitat. It strongly reminded Har-Kan of the Tribe of the Cave, some... many years ago. He wasn't even sure if the tribe still existed.

He spent many years in these four tribes, assisting in their development and teaching them his counting method. With the help of the cave drawings, he expanded their knowledge, his drawings becoming more and more abstract as decades passed. Har-Kan also helped produce many green-eyed children and noticed that they were the ones following his teachings the most avidly.

With the ability to draw abstract ideas came the concept of writing, and the associated notions of knowledge exchange. Since it was now possible to actually write names, people started to give name to everything, going as far as naming each individual tree around their settlement. They also gave names to groups of people, and family names appeared, as well as tribes names, and the four tribes also came up with a name for the whole island.

Atlantis.

Once the four tribes had reached the same level, they started to learn about things from each other, and Har-Kan was happy to stay in the background for a while. Knowledge of how water mixed with some kind of earth to produce clay led to the invention of sturdy bricks, and houses began to be actually constructed instead of using caves. Clay also helped for the creation of dishes, keeping the food away from the unclean floor, and dishes soon became jugs and jars, to keep fresh water and food.

With Har-Kan' experience, the two sea-based tribes also built embarkations and explored the sea around them. It gave the sea tribes a wider area to fish in, but, from an exploration point of view, it was fruitless because there was nothing but water miles around. Most of the expeditions that left the island got caught in storms and died before reaching the land. The ones that succeeded never came back, and their superior knowledge eventually died out in the hostile environment.

* * *

A few millennia after his arrival, Har-Kan found that Atlantis was going to have a problem. In the last hundreds of years, he had peacefully lived far from the population, but he had remarked that the tribes' size had reached unmanageable proportions. There were too many people to live on the ever-decreasing herds of prey animals. He tried to warn them, but they ignored him, thinking that he was a loony hermit. Actually, none of the current inhabitants remembered him and his works.

The food crisis reached a peak when the last goat was killed. The fishing towns acquired more power over the land-based ones, and it caused unrest between the four factions. Items that had been invented to hunt and fish soon became weapons between humans. Har-Kan went to the chiefs of the different warring factions to plead for peace, but they were assassinated or replaced before he could start a proper meeting. The only one that stayed in power was just too stubborn to accept his arguments, and downright cruel: in punishment for disturbing his plans, he sent Har-Kan to be tied to a rocky peak in the mountain. His cruelty didn't involve death by hunger, though: the peak was near a well-known spot where raptors lived. And fed.

Har-Kan spent several years of sheer torture there, being eaten alive by the birds of prey. His healing factor was just replacing the eaten bits, but it wasn't less painful. Apparently, the cruel chieftain was still ruling the town during all that time, because guards were often seen accompanying prisoners to the torture spot – and raping any female that they lead there. Each time they came, they were surprised to see him alive, but they also made sure to strengthen his bonds so that he wouldn't escape.

The guards and prisoners were also his main source of news – that is, as long as the prisoners lived. He heard about horrendous acts: in the land-based towns, people were driven mad by hunger and were actually eating each other. He shook his head and a lone tear found his way on his face before losing itself in his white beard. For hours, days, and even weeks of silent suffering, he wondered about the human mind.

He came to the conclusion that a civilization could only thrive happily if the natural resources were kept on par with their numbers. There was also a balance of power to keep between the identified elements of said civilization in order to keep jealousy and civil war from appearing. Finally, – and he knew it was his own fault because he had retreated from the scene hundreds of years ago – there had to be one power watching over the whole thing.

A year into his imprisonment, one particular night, he felt a deep rumble shake the rocky countryside. Hearing the faint cries from the town some distance away – meaning that people were yelling en masse –, he discovered that he wasn't the only one to be awakened in that way, and wondered about the reason behind it. He noticed, however, that the night wasn't as dark as it should have been: it was tinged red. And, craning his neck to look past the rocky outcropping, he discovered the reason: the mountainous area of the island had been put to fire.

He briefly wondered how a mountain could take fire, before being interrupted by the ground shaking strongly, worse than before. He was struck by a falling chunk of rock and almost fell unconscious. It shattered his bonds, though, and, with great difficulty, he started to walk away. A few minutes after the last earthquake had struck, though, it was dwarfed by something Har-Kan didn't understand, and hoped he would never see again: the mountain exploded. Like a ripe coconut falling on a hard rock.

The top of the mountain was blown in the air by red fire, which arced gracefully downward. That is... gracefully until it hit the houses and the running people. The houses took fire, trapping the few people that still had an upright home. The people hit by the fire rain were either lightly touched, and they succeeded in removing their flaming garment, or they were heavily touched, and they fell under the molten lava blob, never to stand up again.

Several other explosions shook the island, and the mountain actually split itself in two halves, which rolled on the downward slopes, crushing any sign that there had been live humans there. The volcano core exploded a third time, the largest one, forcefully pushing the fertile soil away, and the sea water invaded the depression caused, turning into vapour when contacting the lava. It took a great deal of water to quench the natural disaster, and the currents drew the fleeing embarkations right into the hellish pit.

Only a couple of these succeeded in leaving the destroyed island, eventually reaching another fertile shore. They quickly started to build the same pyramidal houses than the ones they had lived in. Noticing hat the natives were awe-struck, they thought of them as inferiors and imagined a system of beliefs where sacrifices of these would appease whatever god had destroyed their homes.

Thus would eventually come the South American civilizations, although it would take the few pioneers a _very _long time to reach that objective – after all, consanguine intercourse wasn't productive on the long term.

In the meantime, Har-Kan had found that his luck – for he didn't know what else it could be – had kept him alive again. When the mountainside had flattened the town around him, he had been caught in a hole in the rocky boulder, and had been knocked unconscious. A few hours later, he had awoken, only to find himself in a cave half-immersed in water. He looked around the cave and smiled: as if Nature had a liking in him, the hole he had been caught into had been his cave in his hermit years, and he found most of his stuff again – even though they had been quite disturbed.

He decided to sort through these later, and peeked a glance outside. What he saw made him gasp.

Gone was the prosperous island. Nothing remained of the once-proud towns. The island itself seemed to have exploded, as there were rocks like his own in a wide and water-filled circle. In and out the circle, he also noticed numerous bodies and parts thereof, as well as numerous floating trunks from the once-luxurious forests.

Taking this as his cue, Har-Kan returned inside his cave to inventory his belongings. Among numerous broken clay pots, he found several rolls of lianas, as well as a couple of drapes made of the thinnest skins. Three sturdy walking sticks were here too, as well as two bone knives. Finally, protected in several layers of warm furs, he also found a couple of jars of dried fruits and meat, intact. Knowing that he had nothing else to feed on, he realized that he had to leave the island soon, and collected all his belongings before heading out.

Traipsing carefully, he eventually found an almost flat expanse of rock and deposited his load before starting his raft-constructing job once again, using the lianas to bind the usable tree trunks he could find around his place.

A couple of days later, the boat was finished and he left the circle of rubble, some of which had already tilted under the water. Casting a last glance at the place where a proud island had been, he pitied Atlantis and added something in his list of things to establish a thriving civilization: prepare for the eventual disaster.

As he was following the winds, he quickly found himself in the equator, where there was almost none. He stayed blocked like this for a week, following the slow oceanic currents, and grew impatient. Well... it was a relative impatience, since he had lived long enough to suffer a week of waiting. However, his reserves of food were slowly lowering, and he didn't like being hungry _again_. His last journey over the sea having finished with a trip _under _it, he was a bit uneasy on the water-surrounded raft.

His walking stick in his hand, he blew and agitated his hands toward his sail. He knew that it was futile, but it helped him pass the time. However, a slow wind picked up from nowhere and started to push his raft steadily. Har-Kan sat down and considered his luck again: not only Nature seemed to keep him alive, but... was he also able to command her?

He shook his head, attributing the obeying wind to a fluke. He was quite sure that it would have happened even if he hadn't blown at the sail. It would take another very long time for him to discover that it was, in fact, entirely his work.

After landing on an unknown coast, he decided to continue his explorations for a while. His failure at building a civilization was hard on his morale, and he walked the land, barely interacting with the natives.

During the hundreds of years of self-imposed solitude, though, he remarked that the weather was turning colder and colder. Some places he regularly visited found themselves more and more often covered in snow, for a larger and larger part of the year. There were even places he visited where the rivers didn't move anymore, their waters transformed into a tricky ice cover.

Small tribes died of cold, while others huddled together for warmth. Hunters learned to travel far to hunt their food on a snow-covered landscape. The grouping was sufficient to keep the people warm, but it also implied that there were more people to feed, and these tribes' numbers dwindled as well because of the lack of food. In the centuries leading to the glaciation stage, it reached a point where there wouldn't be any human left in North America. The ones alive had exhausted their hunting grounds and couldn't travel too far lest they be frozen to death.

Thanks to his earlier experience with bricks, Har-Kan had learned how to build ice houses quickly, and, even with his rudimentary tools, he was able to do so in the moments before nightfall. Because they didn't have much choice, most of the clans he met in his travels were better disposed to learn the techniques he offered, and the ones who didn't... well, they died out. As someone would say, much later: "evolution means the survival of the fittest." The ones most adapted to survive the seemingly eternal winter either had a thick and warm hide, or were intelligent enough to learn ways to protect themselves from the cold.

Thus came the Inuit civilization.

Har-Kan helped the clans, teaching them how to build igloos and how to train wolves for attack, defence, travel, and warmth. With some of these clans, he also learnt how to efficiently hunt large beasts, sources of not only meat and fur, but also fat – something that was crucial for their survival in the harsh environment. He also found out that the animal's fat could be used as a slow fire combustible, providing enough light for a small igloo. After spending one or ten years in a clan, siring a child or two in the process, he left and went to another to spread the techniques.

At one point, he had taken under his wing a wounded she-wolf and had healed her, earning the animal's fidelity. After their birth, her cubs were trained to follow him as a pack leader, even helping him hunting as they aged. It earned him the nickname of "man-wolf" and the clans he visited started to tell their children stories of how he would help them in the direst times.

After a particular event, the clans he crossed stopped calling man-wolf and nicknamed him "bear-wolf" instead: the weather was so cold that polar bears had migrated to the south of their usual location, and one of them had encountered a human hunting party before fighting them over their mutual prey.

The large animal slashed at them with all its might, and the humans started to retreat. Generally, such an encounter was deadly for the humans. Har-Kan, however, sneaked behind the beast and stuck his spear in the unprotected backside. The blow didn't kill it, though, and the infuriated beast reared up, his attention distracted by the lone human. With that move however, the bear let loose his guard, and Har-Kan spurred his tribesmen to attack. Five spears struck his chest, one of them finding the heart, and the large beast slammed on the snow-covered ground. The party brought the beast back to the encampment, and Har-Kan was praised, and given the creature's pelt and head as a reward for his daring move. He reluctantly accepted, but would later find out that it was one of the best protection against the cold.

His bear-wolf nickname was of course enhanced by the fact that the head of the bear's pelt was covering his head, giving him the appearance of a human-sized bear from afar.

The unforgiving winter continued for an exceedingly long time, dozens of millennia, even, during which Har-Kan travelled through the lands again. He even walked the seas: in the place where he knew oceans were, the icy shoreline had extended far away, to the point of linking Canada to northern Europe and Alaska to Siberia, where he spent a long time hunting with the local Inuit tribes.

* * *

Har-Kan looked at the dead bodies and sighed.

He had been with the clan for a long time, and had participated to their relocations like one of them. Moving was necessary, because of the exhaustion of hunting grounds, mostly due to their prey's migrating habits. On the way, they had been viciously attacked by hungry wild animals, which had succeeded in seriously harming several of them and killing a few elders.

Now that the attack was finished, they could reflect about the reasons behind it. Har-Kan knew that predators prowled upon slower creatures, always seen as weaker. He also knew that the clan's slowness was due to the hauling of their possessions. At the first hunt after setting down, he noticed the reindeers' endurance and later convinced the hunters to catch a couple of them alive.

They had too many possessions for the two animals to carry, though, and they devised a system where the animals would pull a set of small tree trunks, tied together like a raft. There were numerous advantages, mainly because the newly-invented sled was able to carry people as well as possessions. However, the fearful animals were also alarmed at the slightest threat, and the sled was overturned several times during their displacements.

One of these times, it was because of an attacking bear. Maddened by the spears sticking from its back, thrown there by the hunters defending the procession, the large beast succeeded in killing one of the reindeers and wounding the second before being put down. Har-Kan suggested a permanent halt and they quickly built igloos for themselves and for the meat – they had done so for a long time, as it kept the meat from being stolen by carrion eaters. The wounded reindeer was unable to stand, and they took its life too – in these harsh times, pity wasn't an option, and the animal would have been killed on the spot by other predators anyways. After taking the three large animals' fur and cutting the meat in the appropriate morsels, they stored these in the largest ice-house they had built so far.

At the following clan meeting, Har-Kan proposed that his wolves drag the sled, and the elders thanked him before dismissing the session. Har-Kan took a few leather belts from the clan's stash before heading to where his wolves were resting, and tried to put the belts around their necks.

After several ineffective tries, he growled in a manner he knew would cow them – they still saw him as their pack leader – and succeeded in fitting most of the wolves with a collar. Har-Kan knew that, like the humans, the wolves had different personalities, and he let the independent ones their collar-less state. After all, he still needed them to hunt or defend.

Thanks to the stored meat, the clan stayed several days at that location, and, by the time they were ready to leave, Har-Kan had finished teaching his wolves to drag a shed. It was chaotic for the first several days, but it worked, and the invention would be, as usual, spread through the clans of northern Russia and Scandinavia thanks to his numerous trips.

Har-Kan stayed in Northern Europe for a few millennia, helping the tribes, until the weather started to heat up. After a few centuries of warming up, the tribes decided to continue their snow-oriented way of life by retreating to the north, passing the Baltic Sea on foot for the last time.

After waving after his friends for the last time, Har-Kan turned around and headed southward, followed by his current wolf – the last of a long line of specifically domesticated wolves – which he had named Dog.

* * *

As the glaciation receded, the Inuit tribes of Asia separated, some going to the north to keep their way of living, while others stayed where they were. After all, if Khan was an honorary title in ancient Mongolia, there had to be a reason.

In the same way, some North American Inuit tribes migrated to the north, while others stayed where they were, starting to shed their heavy garments to adapt to the warmer climates. Over time, these hunting and migrating tribes would use tepees instead of igloos, and would be ultimately known as Indians and then Native Americans.

Several of these tribes would retain the concept of a shaman – or wise man – to lead the tribes to safe hunting grounds. And these shamans would invariably have clearer eyes than their counterparts.

_**To be continued in next chapter: The Dawn of Humanity...**_

_Atlantis! Lo and behold!  
Done is the legend of old.  
Inuits thrive while Aztecs don't,  
And our hero? Rest he won't._


	3. The Dawn of Humanity

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX  
**Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings. Please also note that this is fantasy and take this with a pinch of salt – or a shovel, if you must._

**Chapter 3 – The Dawn of Humanity  
**_posted January 19__th__, 2006_

After following the still-frozen coastline southwards for several months, Har-Kan arrived in a particularly welcoming tribe of fishermen – still mostly ice-dwelling fishermen, for the moment – and, once again, settled down for a couple of years. During these years, he noticed something strange... sort of. Even if most of the tribe's women were desirable, only half of them interested him. And none of the women he didn't want to know intimately took offence of it as well – contrarily to what could happen with the other males. He knew that it had happened before, in tribes where he had stayed more than fifteen years: the green-eyed young women he had started to refer as his daughters had simply not expressed any desire to be with him, something which suited him perfectly. However, he didn't remember being in this place before, and these women he just stayed friendly with didn't have green eyes. Their eyes were just a bit clearer than the others – and even with this physical trait, there were exceptions.

These realizations kindled his wanderlust again, and he decided to explore the area. A few weeks later, after an afternoon spent hunting, he found himself in front of white cliffs leading to a plateau, and it sparked a memory. Realizing where he was, he suddenly understood why the complex language used by the simple fishermen tribe had been so familiar: although distorted, it was the same language he had first learnt. His "mother tongue."

He wanted to climb, but it was night, and the clouds partially hid the moon, preventing a safe ascent.

He lied down and, looking at the night sky, he remembered some of the things that he had always kept for himself.

In the numerous millennia he had lived, he had shared his time between staying with the tribes and travelling with his wolves – there had been some rare occurrences of young men or women wanting to follow him, but they had usually settled down quickly after a few years, reinforcing another tribe's members. In the meantime, Har-Kan had made numerous discoveries about him, men, and Nature.

First of all, there were several species of men. The tribe of the Bear, the one that had adopted him, was made of different-looking people than the Inuit tribes he had met in his travels, and, despite this, Har-Kan mingled with all of them equally easily. He had also realized that the green-eyed children born of women he started to meet intimately were _his_. While he didn't know the reason behind his lack of attraction toward his descendants – even numerous generations away, as his last stay suggested – he had supposed that it participated to a cosmic order of some kind, and didn't explore further. He had also remarked, in his longest stays, that his progeny was generally faring better than the others in every part of the tribes' lives. They also brought some physical differences from the others, differences that had evolved over time as well. For instance, in the tribe of fishermen he had just left, the ones he identified as his descendants all had fairer skin and slanted eyes, as well as slightly pointy ears. 100000 years of evolution could do that to a mix of Neanderthal and wizard genes.

After his flight from Atlantis, he had also discovered that he could command Nature somewhat. Like his contemporaries, he had an ingrained respect for Nature, since it could deal death and life indiscriminately. However, in the course of his long life, he had made numerous experiments, and had discovered that he could actually command predators away and herds of wild animals towards the hunters. He had pushed the winds and cleared the weather. He had started fire without the appropriate tools. It was as if he could will anything to happen, and that had frightened him sufficiently so that he didn't speak about it to anyone. Human contact was what allowed him to stay sane, and he didn't want to lose that over their eventual fear of him – something which participated in his wanderlust.

The first rays of the sun found him climbing the white rocks, and he started to walk back to where he had started his life, a hundred thousand years before. It took him a few months to find traces of his childhood tribe, and, when he discovered what they had become, he could only gape.

When he had seen the fishermen tribe earlier, he had thought that his descendants' pointy ears were an important change from his rounded ones. The people that greeted him, though, brought that concept quite a bit farther. They were a tad shorter than him, but they carried themselves with a natural grace that their ancestors lacked – and which _he _lacked as well, he was sure. Their ears were also larger and pointier than the ones he had seen before crossing the sea.

One of them approached him, his greyish hair betraying his age despite his strong countenance indicating his leadership. "Welcome, stranger." he said, in a language Har-Kan understood perfectly, given that it hadn't changed much since he first learnt it. "I am Balor, son of Buarainech, and Druid of this tribe. You are on the territory of the Eleven Tribes of the Bear. Who are you and what brings you here?"

Har-Kan blinked.

* * *

After a time, Har-Kan discovered that _all of them _were his descendants, at some point or another. Even if they weren't all tall, graceful, and with pointed ears, they all lived in harmony in the forest. They had even found ways of using the trees to build their living places.

He spent a very long time with them, revelling in the knowledge they had acquired while he was away, and he participated as well, giving as much as he received. It wasn't long before he brought the subject of bending Nature to his will to the fore. The elders, who called themselves Druids – guardians of the people and the land – nodded, giving him hints that they knew what he was talking about. Like with more mundane information, they then exchanged ideas about how to create a campfire, how to ensure that a campsite was protected from wildlife, and how to make more filling food. That last thing was so ingrained in the Clan's current customs that they seldom preyed on the wildlife around them anymore, despite their quite large population. Har-Kan discovered fruits that could make a whole meal and meat that could fill one's stomach for a whole day. However, because of the small wildlife around them, the food had to be consumed as soon as harvested. To keep it away from the vermin, Har-Kan decided to teach them something he had learnt in Atlantis: Pottery.

When the elders learned of that new science, it started discussions about Nature: earth to dig, water to mix it into malleable matter, fire to make it harden, and air to cool it... four elements. Four powers. And they started to theorize ideas about magic and the elements, ideas that would be bear fruit several millennia later. But they weren't in a hurry.

Since they had food that could fill them aplenty, and primitive wards around their camp, they weren't hard-pressed by circumstances to survive, and Har-Kan found that their main occupation was... to enjoy life. As such, even their sleep patterns had evolved. They could spend a week awake, and hibernate for the next – aided in that respect by the filling food they possessed. Har-Kan took some time to adapt his habits to theirs, but he quickly found out that they were exactly that: habits. After several years, he also came to the conclusion that, unlike them, _he_ was able to stay awake for as long as he wanted. Despite their strange habits, they still had to recover at one point or another. Not him.

During his stay with them, Har-Kan also became interested in the shiny things men and women wore on top of their clothes. He learnt that these strange beads were dug from the soil of special places, and they taught him how to find those places by looking at the differences of colour in the flowers. Using this primitive ore, he learnt how to shape coarse jewellery by using a couple of hard stones.

One day, while he was participating to the evening dances, one of these ornaments inadvertently fell into a campfire, and he later found out that these orange beads were much more malleable when heated. It wasn't perfect, but he could make more detailed items in that way.

A related discovery was made when he thought about the fire itself: the larger the fire was, the more pliable the metal was. He didn't know that it was a metal, yet. Nor did he know that that particular metal would eventually be called copper. Using what he knew about bending Nature to his will – something he would later call "magic" – he discovered that he could create extremely hot fires without needing a large campfire. The heat of that fire caused a few painful burns, but he healed in the same way he always did: quickly. The fire, however, was enough to make the shiny baubles even more than pliable: it started to ooze, slowly becoming liquid. Not only that, but it also burnt out the impurities in it, allowing him to get pure metal from the ore.

Despite the fact that his contemporaries couldn't repeat the feat by themselves, Har-Kan had invented smelting. The Clan knew how to make very hot fires, though, and they learnt to do approximately the same thing. They succeeded in blending the baubles into larger and shinier pieces, which could then be hammered into almost anything.

It was only after a couple of years that he realized that few of the elders had died despite their apparent old age. He asked about it, and learnt that these elders were all over a hundred years old. It shocked him, because almost all humans he had met until then died around thirty. It made him realize that it was because of the mix between his genes and the Neanderthals' – although he didn't know these terms yet.

Because of this, he had no qualms in staying a relatively long time with the Eleven – while he didn't say so, he knew that these people were completely different from the original Tribe of the Bear, so he had taken the habit of referring them as "the Eleven". And, while he didn't procreate, he learnt a few games that could be played for lovers' mutual pleasure and relief. Even between persons of the same sex.

He didn't realize it immediately, but the magic that had been spread through his descendants was linking them to the forest in which they lived, creating a comfortable living place even in the harshest of winters. And it brought some changes in his aspect, too. After a couple dozens years, he remarked that his hair wasn't entirely white anymore. Some more years afterwards, his mane had recovered its initial blackness. It stunned him, and he wondered about it, but he couldn't find a reason why that had happened, and let it slide for the moment.

Har-Kan spent a whole millennium with the Clan, visiting the many tribes comprised in the name. He saw the young ones slowly evolving into elders and discovered that, even if they could have many more children thanks to their longer life, they restrained themselves from doing so, using their pleasuring games most of the time. That kept their number manageable, and Har-Kan knew that they wouldn't repeat the overpopulation problem of Atlantis.

It was during these years that something else happened: Har-Kan was teaching them all he knew, including his ideas about counting and writing, as well as magic. The clan quickly associated the idea of magic with his name, and started to use the term "arcane" to designate magical things. At the same time, they learnt that he was very old, and nicknamed him Har the Old. Or, more simply Har-Old.

And his magic made it so that he could change his name with no identity crisis. A few years later, he would try all the possible suffixes of his old name, and found that the most striking one was "Ree".

* * *

_**12000 years ago...**_

His wanderlust struck again, and, after promising to return later, Harry left the Eleven – they had adopted the nickname he had given them – and returned to the continent, a few domesticated wolves with him.

To his surprise, the people on the continent were different from the ones he had found on the island. He reflected that, in the thousand years he had spent there, things might have changed, but he hadn't thought that they could devolve like that. Gone were the bright-eyed men and women. He was facing savages. Savages who seemed to have copied the way of hunting and clothing from their predecessors, but savages nonetheless. Harry was attacked several times, and it was only through magic that he succeeded in driving them away. They were particularly impressed by the wolves he seemed to control and the fire he could summon, and, when the tribe was amicable enough for him to stay, he taught them to domesticate the wolves and to use fire for more than heat and cook fire – fire can harden wood and make stronger wooden spears.

His steps led him far to the east, until he found one of those savage tribes lording over an area on the steps of a mountain range. That particular area contained much copper ore, to the point of only needing to bend to the ground to get them. He decided to stop there for a bit. Using the fact that they were impressed by his magic, he taught the locals to gather the ore and dig for more, going as far as digging whole caves from which the ore could be excavated.

Despite knowing that the tribe wasn't advanced enough, Harry tried to teach them how to count and write, but, in their primitive mind, they mixed letters, and he stopped. They were more aggressive than the people he had met so far, though, and they were interested in his ideas about hunting and survival. After a few years of playing with metal, Harry left the tribe to their own devices and headed southwards, taking a few of his metal creations with him. He didn't know that the tribe would use the remains of his metal tools to antagonize their neighbours, to finally be decimated by a harsh winter, the accidental extinction of their campfire, and the subsequent attack from hungry predators.

On his way towards warmer grounds, Harry left the mountains that would later be called Ural, and spent some more years travelling. He met other tribes on the way, spending some time with them as well. Some of those were fishing in the waters of the Caspian Sea or the Black Sea, and others survived through the hunter-gatherer cycle of prehistoric survival. When the tribes were friendly enough, Harry decided to spend a few years with them, once again siring a couple children in each.

As he was following the Black Sea's coastline southwards, he eventually met a tribe with a peculiar mean of subsistence, and he decided to make a stop. That particular tribe, very small in size, happened to live near a river that would later be called Nile, and they seldom ate meat. There also weren't many fruit trees around, and the dozen men and women mainly ate strange kinds of plants growing haphazardly on the soil around them. Plants which would later be identified as wild cereals and vegetables, like the emmer wheat and the chickpea.

Harry stayed there, and spent the remaining of the summer, as well as the dozen summers afterwards, learning of their ways. He helped them survive, and, as the years passed, he investigated how these plants were reproducing – he knew, from his many years of observation of the Nature around him, that plants _were _reproducing. Once he gathered grain from similar plants, he successfully planted these on a patch of soil near the river, so that they would be quicker to harvest. Plants strengthened themselves too, and the harvested grain would be stronger and larger over time, too.

In the evenings, Harry tried to explain what he had done to the tribe, but they didn't understand the abstract concept behind it, and he went back to _show _them _how _to do it. As teaching writing hadn't gone well with the previous tribes either, he tried to explain things using drawings instead.

One day, as he was drawing on a rock to explain how they could hunt a particularly swift local animal, he inadvertently drew a man across the image of said animal, and he stopped his explanation, his interest sparked by the resulting picture.

After all, he had already a domesticated dog at his side, so... why not a horse?

It took him three years and numerous wounds to do so, but he finally succeeded in taming a mare sufficiently for him to ride it. However, as his endeavour had compelled him to follow the herd, he had left his tribe to their own devices, and, unfortunately, they wouldn't fare well enough against the surrounding culture of hunters-gatherers for their way of life to survive. The writing would, though.

Using the horse, Harry discovered that he was able to travel quicker, and he spent some time exploring the surrounding area, earning the awe of tribes nearby. Each time he stopped, he tried to teach things for the tribes' well-being, like writing or agriculture, and, when they were particularly unreceptive, he told them stories about his life instead. That got their interest, and they would continue to talk about it long after his departure, giving birth to numerous legends which would be compiled later. Among these, his trip in a whale's mouth and his torture on the Atlantis mountain were favourites. His continued existence was also a mystery for his "current contemporaries" and they mingled that, his name, and the mark on his forehead – the only scar that wouldn't go – into a story that would later refer to that scar as the "mark of Kan" – or Cain; he had no brother named Abel, but oral stories had the tendency to be embellished and exaggerated over time.

Harry found and travelled up and down the Euphrates River, eventually meeting each of the numerous tribes living in the area, and he taught them as well. He quickly discovered that the harvested cereals and vegetables could be stored for a relatively long time, but that they would attract insects and other vermin unless held away from the soil. And the best way to do so was to create some... pots. Repeating what he had done with the Eleven clan-nation, he taught them how to bake clay to make pots, thus allowing them to keep the harvested plants much longer.

While teaching this to the tribes, he came to a possible problem: because of the pots' weight, the tribes weren't able to use too many of them if they were constantly on the move. Once again, he repeated one of his earlier teachings, and some tribes started to make bricks, using the technique of mixing a particular type of earth with water before making them rest near a fire.

A few of these tribes also used bricks to build surrounding walls, protecting them against the nightly wildlife, and some others used small slabs of stone which were held together by clay.

Thus came to life cities like Ur or Eridu, the first permanent settlements of Mesopotamia, and the tribes started to flourish. Despite not having the same language – Harry learnt the three main language groups through his numerous stays – they promptly shared the same culture through their exchanges. Some of their own people even started to repeat Harry's example, migrating to teach his lessons into the world around them. Harry himself led a large group towards the early mine he had dug in the Ural, thus starting a trade route bringing copper to the Mesopotamian area.

Those post-glaciation times were difficult, as the warmed ice melt and made the sea level rise substantially, eventually wiping out some sedentary tribes completely. Most of the inland tribes survived, though, but that added fuel to the orally-transmitted legends already in place.

As he travelled from one tribe to another, Harry continued to try to domesticate animals. For some of them, he was successful, while others proved a real difficulty. His first tries with cats, for instance, were a complete disaster and it would be several centuries before he tried again. He had several successes, though, with sheep first, quickly followed by goats. However, these were of close to no use for travelling or defending, and he simply gave the animals to the tribe where he had done so. However, as they were easier to kill, he had the idea of keeping a stock of them, thus obtaining the idea of cattle.

After that, the tribes started to exchange livestock, pelts, and food on a regular basis, and they also started to use clay-sculpted miniatures of the items they exchanged as currency.

Harry spent seven millennia travelling the world, going from the fertile pastoral area we now know as the Sahara to the plains of Asia and back to the Mediterranean Sea, helping the tribes evolve from their hunting-gathering nomadic state into primitive agricultural settlements. In some, he settled for a dozen years, just enough for them to grasp the concepts he was giving them. In others, he stayed for longer, especially when he found the ground for expanding their knowledge. In one of them, he found that the people were ready for abstract thoughts, and he started teaching them about writing and counting again, notions which evolved into advanced concepts like mathematics, astronomy, and navigation.

That city was called Sumer.

* * *

_**5000 years ago...**_

Harry thought that, by giving free access to technology, the primitive tribes would forget their dissensions and unite. Unfortunately, given the innate belligerence the Homo Sapiens had displayed until then, he _relatively_ quickly found that peace wasn't to be. Importing metal and teaching them metalworking allowed the tribes to create weapons to go warring each other, sometimes bringing an end to both as the warriors killed each other. Bringing cattle near sedentary humans also created diseases such as measles or smallpox, and the trade routes allowed these diseases to travel.

All in all, Harry wasn't too much happy of his work.

He tried to unite the tribes, though, and his first success in that endeavour was a kingdom encompassing the fertile valley of the Nile. But, then again, despite having his magic on their side, the rulers thought it was a good thing to enslave the disorganized neighbouring tribes rather than letting them live in peace. Coming back from his numerous travels, Harry saw humongous buildings being built over the dead bodies of underfed slaves, and, when the current Pharaoh ordered to kill the resisting slaves' children, he decided to put a stop to it.

One of the first one to die by the Pharaoh's new law was called Moses, and Harry magically assumed that name in homage of the poor boy. He then went to the Pharaoh, and, through a great deal of magic allowing him to charm his mind – making him believe in disasters striking his country if he didn't comply – he obtained the permission to leave the country with all the slaves.

It wasn't easy to do so, and Harry had to show the safe-conduct to officers repeatedly. On top of that, the slaves coming from twelve different tribes, it wasn't easy to make them walk in a coherent way. However, after deciding on a particular beacon for them to follow – he knew how to make a magical fire, after all – he succeeded and thousands of slaves left Egypt.

During his walk through the desert, Harry ruminated bitterly about the different civilizations he had nurtured, and decided to try something else. If rulers were corrupt and lacked morals, he could perhaps enforce their ethics by making fear some gods. Gods already existed, though: after noticing the fright his magic induced in people, he had explained it by some spiritual mumbo-jumbo and had created a pantheon for them to believe in. But having numerous spiritual factions weakened the message, and he decided to make them actually fear a spiritual power by giving them one god only. And a vengeful one, at that.

Noticing a mountain on the way, he established an encampment there, magically created food and water, and told them about the one god they were going to follow. He then hid in the mountain and worked on his idea. Several days later, he came back with simple rules of ethics engraved on slabs of stone. He had expected them to wait faithfully, but came to a scene of orgy. 'Of course.' he thought. 'They were just freed from a civilization where orgies were common thing, and they want to enjoy that.'

While he waited for the night to finish, letting his people sleep at last, Harry reflected about this. He had long since remarked that the most developed tribes were the one where inbreeding was at its lowest, and the wild reproduction session he had just witnessed wasn't going to enforce that. On top of that, partying around wasn't going to help give these people the fear they needed to strive towards achievement rather than wild pleasure.

When the sun rose, he had reached a conclusion. He _did_ want his ideas to be applied, and, as he was leading them through the desert again, he decided to make them stew for a little while. A little while for him, but forty years for them. After all that time, the old generation was dead and the new one had forgotten about the Egyptian way of life, and then Harry brought them to the Sinai again, where he recovered his engraved laws for them to follow. He even added a couple of rules to enforce the family cell.

During the time they spent in the desert, he taught them many things, and told them stories about him as well. As they knew how to write, a few of them decided to write down everything that he said. Harry didn't see any problem there, as long as his simple principles were understood and copied onto their rolls as well. After making them build a settlement near a fertile river, he left them to their own devices.

* * *

_**3000 years ago...**_

Harry continued to travel around the world. There simply wasn't a single place where he could settle once and for all. Even in the Clan of the Eleven Bears – which was now officially known as the Elven Kingdom; and their people, the Elves. There, peace reigned despite the primitive tribes that had set foot on the island. After Harry's warning about the Homo Sapiens' aggressiveness and greed, and after a few trades finishing in bloodshed, the Elven elders agreed to ward their realm even more thoroughly, preventing access to those who were uninvited. Only a few educated humans were allowed in the forest, and, among their people, these acquired the title of Druid. They were allowed to repeat the Elves' teachings, and thus came the Celt civilization.

Despite the peace reigning in the Elven Kingdom, Harry merely spent a century or two there before returning to the Homo Sapiens tribes and their tribulations.

He often stayed with the Greeks, enjoying having insightful talks with intelligent people and telling them his stories. However, even those literate people had their bad moments. The episode of Troy, for instance, left him with bitter thoughts at seeing all these young men killed for what was, basically, a love affair blown out of proportions. Since he was one of the few knowing the whole story and still alive to report it, he went back to Greece and wrote it under his current name: Homer. Another bard, incidentally called Homer as well, would add the Odyssey twenty years later, when Ulysses would come back home and tell of his travels.

Harry left Greece on one of the merchant ships and set foot in the peaceful Etruscan realm, and stayed there for quite some time, learning about and influencing their way of life. He even gave them ideas to write the numbers, ideas that would be expanded upon by the future inhabitants of the place.

Once he had spent a couple of years there, having rested enough from his earlier difficulties, he started moving again, intending to return to the Elves. On his way, though, he heard cries in a nearby area. Investigating, he found the remains of a battlefield. Houses were burnt, dead people were littering the road, and the only living person was a pregnant woman, kneeling in the middle of the mess, her fur clothes in tatters. She was wailing and clutching her belly, and Harry quickly realized that she was pregnant. And heavily so.

"What is it?" he asked, rushing to her side and preparing his magic to help her. 'Duh! Everybody died.' he thought cynically. 'Next question?'

"Err... what can I do for you?"

"My babies." she said, and it earned her a raised eyebrow.

She grunted suddenly. "They... Come..."

And she pushed.

An hour later, Harry was holding two little boys, and the mother was dead from the strain. There wasn't much to do for her, but the wailing babies needed something. Something particular that he couldn't give them right now. Milk.

"Orion, Quick." he called his faithful dog. "Find a female nearby."

The dog disappeared in the surrounding forest for several minutes. When he came back, Harry noticed the body language and he knew the animal had found what he wanted. He followed him and came in front of a small cave. Inside...

...was not a woman. 'Duh!' he thought again. He had thought that the term "female" was better understood by the dog, but he hadn't thought that the dog would find and lead him to a _wolf _female. The babies were weakening, though, and Harry didn't have much choice in the matter. Thankfully, the wolf had a litter of cubs, and was milking already. Even with his magic, Harry would be hard-pressed to get milk from a non-milking and unwilling female wolf.

As it was, he magically convinced the she-wolf that she had two more cubs, and he put the babies in the appropriate position. When the two were full, he pulled them back and wrapped them in warm clothes. After a few hours of travel, he found a willing family for the two boys to grow in, and, when asked for the reason, he told them the truth.

Eighteen years later, two young men called Romulus and Remus would fight over the location of their future city. Romulus would win, and the town would be called after him: Rome.

* * *

_**2000 years ago...**_

Harry was bored. He was currently a self-appointed member of the Sanhedrin – the supreme court of Israel, at the time – and his tasks included several debates about laws, something he didn't like very much. Even if he had participated in the creation of these laws centuries before.

He closed his eyes and remembered how he had arrived here. Eighty years before, the Catuvellauni – one of the Celtic tribes living on the south-eastern border of the Elven kingdom – had been targeted by a Roman invader. Asked for help, the Elves had discussed about it, but they had felt unconcerned by Homo Sapiens problems, and they had simply laid the question onto Harry's lap. Using magic on the weather and illusions to give the troops a fearsome appearance, he had successfully pushed the first invading fleet back and had followed them right afterwards, intent on discovering the reason behind the attack. He had simply found a Roman general wanting to impress his people back home, and had gone to Rome to see what the little settlement had become.

Julius Caesar was a persistent man, though, and, after leading a second attack the following year, he had successfully set foot on the island. Not for long, but it had been enough to secure some political weight.

Harry had been impressed by Rome's grandeur and decadence. Having lived with the elves, Harry knew about erotic games, but the richer Romans had mixed religion, politics, and sex, and it gave scenes of debauchery that he hadn't been accustomed to. That, and their treatment of plebeian people and slaves, had made him wary of staying there, and he had left the town. Once again, he had spent numerous years travelling around, visiting the "Roman empire" – including the newly-rebuilt Carthage – until he had arrived in Israel, a decade ago.

He opened his eyes.

When the morning session was finished, he headed to the Temple courtyard to grab a bite. The merchants yelling around him were disturbing, but the market was always more alive than the members of the supreme court.

He was in the middle of his fig cake when he heard a disturbance and noticed a visibly impoverished young man throwing a fit at the merchants. It wasn't unusual – it was a marked place, after all – but what caught his attention was the diatribe's content: he was asking them to leave his father's house, and violently so, upturning tables and destroying merchandise.

His father?

The angry merchants bodily pushed the poor man out of the marketplace, and he left, led by an old woman who could only be his mother. Harry followed them and, upon reaching the substandard house where they were lodged, he decided to have a talk with the man. After introducing himself as Nicodemus – his current identity – he learnt of the man's identity and story, listening between the words to catch the hidden meanings.

He was named Jesus, and was actually an illegitimate son of the temple's High Priest. Harry understood that the priest wasn't giving him anything, and he also knew that a woman bearing a bastard wasn't considered well with the laws as they were written. Having heard that that Jesus was trained as a carpenter, he gave him a little money to build himself a shop nearby, and left them to their own devices.

Harry should have known, after all these millennia, that people left to their own devices didn't fare well. As he was walking the street towards the Sanhedrin for the afternoon session, he saw several law enforcement officers as well as a couple of priests, walking in the other direction. He didn't make the connection, though, and would learn about the young carpenter's death sentence only days afterwards. Apparently, it hadn't been the first occurrence, and the insulted merchants had taken the problem in front of a local tribunal, which, in turn, had put the man under arrest. Surprisingly – or not – they found no money on the man, and applied the usual sentence for thugs: the death by crucifixion.

Harry was profoundly shocked. Not only he knew for a fact that he had given the man some money – and, given the amount, he couldn't have drunken it in five minutes – but he also knew that no law authorized the crucifixion simply for troublemaking. He realized at once that his initial monotheistic system had been warped by corruption, and that the laws they discussed in the Sanhedrin were applied differently outside, where tribunals were equally corrupted by wealthy merchants.

On top of all this, he couldn't push for new laws, because the Romans appointed a new governor the exact same week. The Sanhedrin found itself devoid of real power, and Harry resigned. Like before, he decided to pay homage to the dead youth by taking his place. After growing his beard in the like of Jesus, he assumed his identity and started to preach for peace and non-violence.

This time, he started his teachings by the lowest categories of population. He even allowed himself to use magic to impress them. He realized that, with the support of a large group of people, he was able to defy the authorities. It took seven years for them to reach him through treason, but it was too late already: the peaceful sect was started, and it wouldn't stop there. Ultimately, his death on the cross and his "resurrection" afterwards – he _still _couldn't die, and he succeeded in escaping his tomb by himself – would push his followers further on that road.

Eventually, the non-violence message would be transmitted around the Mediterranean Sea and around the world itself, but following it would come the usual problems of power and corruption. It wasn't here and now, though.

Here and now was a little something that had escaped his notice while he had been on the cross: his blood had been recuperated in a wooden cup, which a man named Joseph of Arimathea had brought home after the burial. Harry went there, but it was too late.

The rich man's house was full of dead bodies.

Harry extended his magic towards the past to learn what had happened, and he gasped.

Apparently, the man had been in league with some of the temple's priests, and they had had a party after his burial. Intoxicated by the wine, and mistakenly thinking that the red liquid in the cup was wine as well, Joseph had drunk the highly magical blood from it.

Under Harry's shocked gaze, the memory continued to play and showed the man snapping upright, his eyes wide. The numerous guests started to laugh at the exhibition, but their mirth evaporated when the cup dropped with a clatter, and when he grabbed his throat in visible pain. His canine teeth slowly elongated, eventually piercing his lips, drawing blood which started to leak, joining Harry's on the man's chin.

At the same time, another transformation was taking place. Joseph's dog – which was, in fact, a recently-tamed wolf – had lapped the blood fallen from the cup, and its body transformed as well. After much pain-inducing morphing and shuffling, a larger beast stood there. Stood. It looked like a mix between a man and a wolf.

The two of them looked at each other. At that moment, the guests weren't laughing anymore, and some of them had even started to flee the house, wailing at the horror. The man-wolf reached them in three leaps and brought an end to their cries, while the fanged man took care of those inside with inhuman speed. When the silence came back in the house, the man-wolf had fled the premises already, and Joseph looked around with haunted eyes. He noticed the cup on the ground, and his eyes lit up. By some strange happenstance, the cup was standing upright, and it was still full of blood. With a last look around, he took it and, carefully putting a stopper over it, he pocketed it and left.

Harry's vision returned to the present, and he broke into a cold sweat. He now knew that his works had been thwarted again, earning him some more difficulties later. As if there was a force in the universe actively preventing him from doing good deeds for the world. Food and technology had backfired into war and corruption, and peaceful religion had indirectly produced highly dangerous beasts...

...which would ultimately be known as vampires and werewolves.

_**To be continued in next chapter: Once Upon a Time...**_

_This chapter is not at all  
A religion thesis!  
If not, my poor head would roll  
At the Inquisition's feet._


	4. Once Upon a Time

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX  
**Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings._

**Chapter 4 – Once Upon a Time...  
**_posted April 12__th__, 2006_

As he wanted to catch both of them quickly, Harry hoped against all hopes that his two quarries would stay together. They didn't, of course. After discussing with his previous comrades – revealing himself to them in the process – and having better leads towards the wolf-like beast, Harry decided to follow said beast's trail and travelled eastwards.

After a few years, he eventually found the unnatural beast, howling victoriously in the middle of a devastated hamlet near Sri Lanka. The original wolf-sized monster had grown to the height of nine feet, and had claws the size of a dagger. After an epic fight, during which Harry suffered greatly himself and discovered about the half-wolf inhumane strength and quasi-invulnerability, the beast was finally put down and then completely obliterated to prevent further regeneration. The little dregs of magic remaining in Harry's body were used to heal the few villagers still alive, and he then collapsed in exhaustion.

Several days later, his own regeneration power allowed him to wake up fully healed. He took a cursory glance around, only to find himself in some sort of a monastery, and it was night time. The time didn't prevent the monks from being extremely agitated, though. Harry heard fighting sounds from the entrance, and a howl crystallized his decision to intervene. He ran, jumped, and sidestepped fleeing monks and arrived in front of a nightmarish vision. In the courtyard, bathed in the moonlight, half a dozen beasts were panting and drooling, snarling and howling.

Half a dozen copies of the beast he had put down a few days before.

Of course, they looked less impressive, being more human-sized than the original monster. They were even half-clothed with rags. Rags that Harry identified as being clothes from the villagers he had healed before. His eyes widening in shock, he realized that he had forgotten something: in his travels to find the beast, he had never enquired about its victims. And, looking at him with their amber eyes, these victims seemed ready to pounce on him at a moment's notice.

Harry readied himself. His millennia of experience in fighting humans and animals had given him strength and agility, as well as techniques of fighting against each and every animal on the planet – some of them even extinct. And his millennia of experience in harnessing the ambient power – a power that would later be called _magic_ – had often helped him in his tribulations.

Two of the beasts were disputing the body of an unfortunate monk, but the other four jumped on him at the same time. Harry rolled on the ground and stood up behind them. He extended his hand and one of them slumped forward, asleep and out for the count. Harry grasped one of the staves lying around, and smacked a second man-wolf in certain points around the head. On a normal human, these points were used to put the person to sleep. Of course, with the strength Harry currently applied, a normal human would be decapitated. The werewolf grunted and took a couple of menacing steps, before collapsing as well. Repeating the pattern, Harry subdued the others quickly.

While he was recovering, he called for the monks to imprison them: he wanted to test several theories about the new beasts.

Harry spent the following year in or around the monastery, helping its survival. Since their supporting village had been decimated, they had difficulties interacting with the outside world. He taught them some of his fighting techniques and his moral values as well. Unbeknownst to him, they wrote everything down and mixed with their own mythology. And, since their meeting with him was so strange – he had slept a whole week before awakening right before the battle, after all – they tended to call him the Awakened. Which, in their language, was pronounced Buddha.

Naturally, his teachings were separated in two, and, unknown to many of them, they would be propagated through two separate ways, eventually rejoining in certain temples, where Buddhist monks would practice martial arts.

Over his time at the monastery, he discovered that the werewolves transformed involuntarily when the moon was full. After several tests, he also found about their allergy to silver. And, after even more tests, he came up with a way to remove the evil spirit that took hold of them during the full moons. Unfortunately, two of them were too far gone in madness for their wolf spirit to bend to Harry's will, and it was decided that they would be kept prisoner in a completely closed cell, with only a hole for their food. Eventually, over the course of several years, they would become completely insane and fight each other to death.

Meanwhile, working with the four others, Harry made a startling discovery: even after his meddling with their spirit, they were still able to change into wolves, although it was at will and the "inner wolf" wasn't there anymore. Thus came the first tribe of reformed werewolves, also known as Lycans.

Harry studied their transformation in detail, and he came up with the Animagus theory. And, after some time, the practice as well.

He wasn't a wolf, though. His form was a smaller one, although even better adapted to survival; one that was ferocious enough to successfully bring down animals four times bigger than it was: a glutton.

When he was certain that the hamlet's inhabitants were secure, he traced his steps back and tried to find if the initial beast had made more victims. Unfortunately, it was the case, and Harry had to heal a dozen more werewolves, in times forced by circumstances to kill some unredeemable ones. By now, however, he knew that the disease could spread, and, even with the best efforts, he couldn't destroy or convert all of them at once.

His travels brought him back to the Roman Empire, where he noticed that his teachings about peace had spread around, although it was mixed with local customs in some cases. However, the Romans had started to notice what they considered an upstart Judaic sect as troublesome, and numerous trials culminated in martyrdom for many believers. Using his powers, Harry discreetly tried to push these trials towards a fairer end, but there were too many of them. He resolved to travel to the imperial capital to force the Emperor to recognize the new religion as it was. Incidentally, on his way there, he went through Damascus and met two brothers shortly afterwards. One was called Rufus and the other Paul, and they were debating about the validity of Christianity's views – Paul being quite harsh against them. He stopped to explain his views, and thus created himself two new apostles, one of whom would ultimately spread his teachings better than the others.

Harry knew that appearance was important in Rome, and, when he arrived there, he used his magic to appear younger and with richer clothes so as to look like a young patrician. Also, just because he heard the name Darius being used in the street, he chose to assume that name as well. Then, after using of much rhetoric and a bit of magic to pass the guards, Harry met with the current emperor, Claudius.

To his dismay, he found out that the man wasn't that concerned by peace in Galilee: his current task was more like an expansion of the empire. At that particular time, Emperor Claudius was keen on invading Britain, and had deployed many legions to the particularly resisting island. With the many members of the Praetorian Guard around the man and his family, Harry couldn't use his powers to convince him. Well, he could, but it wouldn't be discreet, and he had long since learnt that some humans reacted badly when noticing magic. Either that, or he would be considered a god, and he didn't want that. Besides, he was worried about the Elven Kingdom.

The two men had argued about it for some time, and, after dismissing him, Claudius gratefully drank from the cup his wife Agrippina gave him. The next day, Harry was travelling northwards, and Claudius was dead.

Harry returned to find the realm of the Elves still intact despite the war raging at its doors. He learnt that the forest-dwelling tribes had enhanced their wards even further, and that some of these tribes had relocated in the forested areas of other parts of the world, a small part of them having started to do so even centuries before. It was evident only now, because, thanks to their research in magic, the elves had invented means of contacting each other from almost anywhere on Earth, using magic and undisturbed natural pools. Thanks to their magic, they were also as much at home in the hot jungle of South America than in the freezing forests of Siberia or Northern America. And all of them had efficiently warded their wooded homeland against the Homo Sapiens. Of course, Harry's blood being theirs, he could travel back and forth at will, as did the few remaining druids. However, as the Roman Empire progressed, the number of druids diminished, and soon, only people of Elven blood were able to enter the warded forests.

Since he was quite satisfied about the well-being of the civilization created by his oldest descendants, Harry continued his travels around the world, spreading his peaceful views while searching for his quarry at the same time. Even though he met vampires on his way and learnt about their strengths and weaknesses, he never found his prey: Joseph of Arimathea, the first human to have drunk his blood, seldom stayed in one place more than a couple months. Incidentally, the sire of all vampires also earned himself a nickname in his travels: the Wandering Jew.

* * *

At the same time period, the Romans saw Emperor Nero – at 17, the youngest emperor yet – poison his 14-year old step brother and Agrippina, his own mother later. Ten years into Nero's reign, a great fire erupted in his city, and he merely watched the flames from afar, singing madly and later claiming that the Christians caused it. After Nero's suicide, the empire spent a whole year in expectation, as several emperors came and went.

Near the end of Emperor Vespasian's rule, Harry, still in search of Joseph of Arimathea, made a brief stay in Rome. He quickly sensed the unrest under the Vesuvius, he tried to warn the emperor's counsellors about it. Although they nodded along, they thought he was an insane old man and left it at that. And Pompeii and Herculaneum were covered in lava less than a year later. Once again, Harry was far by then. In fact, at the same time, he was just visiting the mining villages in the Ural mountain range. Upon digging deeper and deeper, one of these had found an unknown substance, and Harry was extremely interested to find something new.

It was metal ore, for sure, but the local blacksmiths couldn't even refine it, much less work it: it simply refused to melt when put in fire. They had even decided to discontinue the digging of that particular ore just before Harry's arrival in their town.

When Harry gave it a try, though, the ore melted almost immediately, relinquishing a metal that was gleaming like polished silver. To say that the locals were impressed would be an understatement. Harry smiled around, but, unexpectedly, he was quite tired. He had a faint idea about the reason, though: he had distinctly felt the pull on his magic when the metal was put into the fire. While he was sleeping, the blacksmith tried to work the gleaming metal, but, once again, it was of no use. Harry tried again the next day, and it worked, although the pull on his magic was even stronger.

Thinking about the perceptible amount of magic in the elves, Harry suggested that he knew people who could work the metal, or at least buy the ore, and he promptly – over a few months – set up a trade road between the mines of the town named Myridine and the closest elf settlement. The elves were wary of trading with humans, though, and they didn't relinquish the products made of the strange metal. They only gave natural products like furs and food. The nearly-indestructible metal was effectively worked by them and they produced arms and armours of even higher quality than they were used to. However, they had long since decided not to favour the Homo Sapiens with any advantage over them, and they kept those arms and armours for their own people.

Incidentally, the metal was called Myridine's metal, a name that would be later shortened into… mithril. As only a few sets of armours and weapons were issued to the humans, it acquired a reputation of legend even after the last mithril vein would be exhausted, a thousand years later.

And Harry, being responsible for this discovery, was given a name-like title: he would be Harold of Myridine.

The trade route opened, Harry continued his journey across the world. He met several historians like Josephus, with whom he discussed about past time; he met astronomers like Ptolemy, with whom he discussed about his observations; he met emperors again, some of whom valued his counsels while some didn't; he met all kind of people, and had all sorts of interactions. But he didn't find Joseph.

His travels often brought him back to the Elves, with whom he had many interesting interactions, lasting as little as a day or as long as a few years.

The Elven kingdom had long since reorganized itself into Courts, a name that encompassed the loosely-held group of a hundred individuals living in the trees of a given forest. Each of these courts had names, often chosen after the name of the Court's founder or ruling family. For instance, there were the Courts of Calaëdon in northern Britain, of Amazonyel in South America, of Saskatiëwa in North America, and of Sibyria in what would be eastern Russia. In most case, these names would be picked up by the humans colonizing the place afterwards.

Over his stays in the numerous Courts, Harry learnt about their magic wards of avoidance and their magic pools of communication. He also found out that, with their better understanding of magic, borne of millennia of active study, they were able to decipher the strange drawings on his body. These tattoos had been on his body for as long as he remembered, but they weren't always clearly visible. Some where particularly discernable when he was angry, others were when he was hurt. After studying them, the Elves would later come to a unified theory, in which they would call these drawings Runes. In the process, the Elven scholars found out that most of the runes on Harry's body were protective in nature, and that they were extremely old, but extremely powerful as well – mainly because they were being powered by Harry himself.

The power of magical beings rose steadily with time, eventually counterbalancing the effect of age until they were really too old to maintain that delicate balance. Elves, who had a natural life span of several centuries, were quite powerful already. Harry was different in the fact that his life expectancy was… indefinite. Consequently, the power he was feeding the runes with was always increasing.

* * *

Three centuries later, Harry was still searching for Joseph of Arimathea but still hadn't gotten any chance in killing him. He had decided long ago that the vampires were as much an abomination as the werewolves were. Unfortunately, there was no cure to the vampirism, and Harry killed all those he met. He had had several trails on the man, most of them yielding nothing. He had seen the old vampire a few times, but his prey had fled from each confrontation.

By that time, the Roman Empire was in shambles, the barbarian tribes from Götaland – in Scandinavia – having sacked most of it, and several individuals were hailed as kings of the miscellaneous former Roman provinces, ruling either with the blessing of the population, or with a steely hand.

Harry was currently staying in Wales, isolated by the Elven magic from the humans' wars raging around them, and enjoying peace while playing his lyre: over time, he had picked another habit from the graceful people, and it was singing and the playing of musical instruments. The current tradition at the Elven courts implied that everyone could play the age-long instruments of the Elves: the lyre, the flute, and the drum. The Elves had invented these instruments after their first few millennia of peaceful civilization, as well as poetry and singing. By now, several variations of the base instruments had been developed, and the Elven bards, specialized in singing or music playing, had enough talent to influence their audience's mood or even stun them. Harry had explored that line of thought as well, and he had noticed that the best among the bards could interlace magic with their music so as to actually cast spells.

One particular day, a group of several Elves came to him, and he stood up in respect.

"Harold of Myridine?" asked Leatha, current ruling queen of the Court – of course, she spoke Elvish, a language Harry knew very well.

Harry bowed, conscious that the Queen calling him with his current full name was sign of an official discussion. "Queen Leatha of Waëls, what may I do for you?"

"Uninvited humans have been spotted in our woods, and I would like you to meet them, investigate the issue, and lead them out eventually."

Harry didn't ask why the queen was asking him to do the job of a guard because he knew the answer already. Most of the tribes didn't have druid acquaintances anymore, and, to repel the occasional wanderer, they had to use magic or bodily push them away, while hiding their features. Elves didn't want to be seen by humans, in fear of being dragged into their feuds. Of course, counter-examples existed, and there have been several interactions between the two races. Given the strength of the Elves' magic and their nature, all of these interactions were love stories between individuals. Most of these stories hadn't gone well for different reasons – the humans' counterpart aging factor being the prominent one – but in the few cases it went well, magic even helped the Elven counterparts to conceive children despite the differences in their genetic heritage. These fruitful cases were closely watched by the full-blooded Elves, but it was difficult to do so if they wanted to live in the humans' world. In either case, the women of these lines continued to display an Elven-like unearthly beautiful figure to the third generation. At one point in time, the Elves had decided to give a collective name to these family names and they came up with an anagram of their race name. They called them Veels.

Harry shook his head, distracted by his thoughts. "Have the wards failed, my queen?"

"They are still there, strong as ever, and they haven't been disturbed at all. It is as though they were the druids of old, but we haven't invited any in these last century – and you know about the humans' life expectancy."

Harry could see that, under her mask of dignity and grace, the queen was quite distraught. If humans could stumble upon their woods, it would mean danger for them to be mingled in inane wars, a true danger for their peaceful civilization. He bowed. "I will see to them, my queen."

"Very well. Kaliel will lead you to them. Joy and harmony." she finished, using the Elvish usual salutation.

"Joy and harmony to you too, my queen."

With these parting words, the queen left with her retinue, bar one man, and Harry stowed the lyre he had been playing on the uneven floor, near an uneven wall – living in trees can make houses like that, but the Elves found it better than a construction blocking the view of nature around them. Despite the rough aspect of their homes, the Elves were very realistic about them, and could live in their trees much better than the humans in their cold castles. Arranging their homes was one of their most important activity, besides playing music and games. Incidentally, one of those games – despite having several versions going around – had a simple aim: it represented human armies warring on a battlefield, represented by pieces on a chequered board. Later, it would be called chess.

Harry nodded when he was ready, and Kaliel nodded back before leaving. Using the trees to move, the two of them found the "invaders" quickly enough, and Harry was surprised to find that they were quite young. Two boys they were, one barely a teenager while the other was well under his teens. And, strangely, it was the younger who led the older through the woods. Harry and his guide were close enough to hear their voices arguing in Welsh.

"Seriously, brother, I don't know where you lead me, but I have a bad feeling about those woods." the older boy was saying. "People say they are haunted." he added in an undertone.

"Rhys, please!" the young one exclaimed. "You follow a legend spread by peasants? Want to return… there?"

The one called Rhys shivered and shook his head. The other boy – his brother, apparently – resumed dragging him towards the depth of the forest, and Harry knew he had to act soon. Jumping in front of the boys, he addressed them.

"You, there! Who are you and what are you doing here?"

The younger, who had seemed resolute before, turned tail and hid behind his larger brother. Upon seeing a threat that could be dealt with – instead of the lingering fear the warded forest was sure to give any human – the older one lifted his sword.

Harry extended his hand and the sword jumped there, to the boys' surprise. Harry could hear a soft chuckle over him and knew that Kaliel hadn't left. "Do I need to repeat my question?"

"Please, good sir." the young one implored. "We are but two boys."

"Whose names I'd be glad to know." Harry interrupted.

"I'm Ambrosius Aurelianus, son of…" the older one started proudly, using his Romanized name for better effect. However, his composure crumbled suddenly. "It doesn't matter now. Father is dead, our brother is dead, and Gwrtheyrn is after us."

"Who was your father?" Harry asked, kindness in his voice. He always had a soft spot for stranded orphans.

"Father was the High King of Britain. Custennin was his name. When he died, our brother Constans took his place, but Gwrtheyrn, his advisor, killed him and took his place. He's after us, now."

"And… what are you doing here?" Harry enquired.

"Gwthyr said the soldiers never enter the Forbidden Forest." Ambrose replied, nodding back towards his brother.

"Without your brother, would you have come here?"

"No." was the instant response. "I was sure that animals were going to attack us, and that the trees wouldn't let us pass, but Gwthyr had already walked through them and I had to follow." He paused for a second. "I have to take care of him, you know. Even if we are only half-brothers. Both our mums died and Father took equally good care of the three of us."

Harry cast a brief glance upwards. Things started to make sense, and Kaliel would notice it as well. "How old are the two of you, and what is the name of Gwthyr's mother?"

"Why?" asked Ambrose suspiciously.

His brother didn't have the same self-control. "I'm seven-and-a-half years old!" he proclaimed proudly.

"You are a strong one." Harry said, looking at him fondly. His eyes were searching, though. Yes… that could be. He would ask Kaliel later.

His eyes returned to Ambrose. "I asked because you shouldn't be here. There are reasons why this forest is called Forbidden Woods. However, your brother seems to have inherited something from his mother's side, and I want to know her name to get my facts right. Was she a beautiful woman?"

"Yes." the boy immediately answered. "Many men tried to court her, even after she vowed herself to Father. She turned all of them down." He paused, before turning to his brother and smiling fondly. "I remember Father calling her "my huntress" but everyone else referred to her as Lady Dyana." He frowned. "Now that I think of it, I remember… the last month of expectancy, she went ailing, and she said a couple of times that if the child was a girl, she had to be named after her, like her mother and grandmother." he said, shrugging. "I don't know why I recall this, but… eeek!"

Used to the elfish style of life, Harry hadn't moved, but the two boys were startled when Kaliel dropped from the trees behind them, his hood firmly in place and obscuring his pointy ears.

"Don't be afraid, young ones." Harry said, still thinking about the young boy's parentage. Visibly, Kaliel had had the same thoughts because he was kneeling in front of the boy and peering at his face attentively. Harry paused, knowing that the elf's vision was better than his for this kind of task. The elf still needed to stay several seconds face-to-face with a prospective human before reaching a decision. When it was done, he nodded, and a smile graced his already graceful features.

"Fourth generation." he simply said.

Harry nodded back. It confirmed his hunch: Gwthyr was a Veel. As a male one, he didn't have many distinctive traits, but the wards around the forest affected him differently and that was why he was able to lead his half-brother through them. As soon as he reached this conclusion, though, another one came forward immediately: Elves took care of themselves, and they also took care of the Veels.

There was one problem, though: only having each other to count on, the two brothers wouldn't accept being separated, and Ambrose, as fully-blooded human, wouldn't be accepted anywhere near Elven Courts. Sure, the Elves took care of the Veels, but they had always stayed discreet about this.

An hour later, Harry had conferred with the queen, and it was decided that the two boys be educated in the human world. Leatha had cousins leading the Court of Broceliande, in Brittany, and the humans leaving nearby were in relative peace. It would be years before the two brothers would come back to Britain to bring an end to Gwrtheyrn's reign. In the meantime, Harry decided to keep an eye on the repressive king.

Not only was Vortigern – the Briton name of Gwrtheyrn – a cruel man, but he was also devious and paranoid. He only kept men he could trust around him and was followed with guards everywhere he went, a habit that prevented Harry's interference. The king was also warring actively against the barbarian tribes that were pouring through the defences vacated by the Romans mere decades ago. Following the Roman custom of employing a barbarian tribe to fight against another, the king successfully brought a tribe of Saxon mercenaries from the continent. However, the mercenaries' chief, a strong man named Hengist, was even more deceitful than Vortigern was. Despite successfully assisting the king in fighting the invaders out, Hengist conned the king into giving him a town, then a whole county, and then he broke peace with him and slew nearly 500 British noblemen.

The high king of the Britons was forced to flee and he decided to build a stronghold to hold his troops and regroup. Having been taken by his own affairs, Harry hadn't been able to act before. He had relocated the two brothers in Brittany and had found a trail to Joseph of Arimathea leading far into Africa. It had ended without bearing any fruit except an opportunity for him to spread his peaceful views of life further – these would be written down a century later as well. He had then followed another lead into India but it was empty as well. Now that he was back in Britain, he decided to take care of the current king.

Each night, Harry sneaked in the construction site of Vortigern's keep, and he used his magic to provoke an earthquake. After a couple of days of bringing the walls down, he started a rumour about a young boy having the answer to the problem – he had already decided to appear to these humans as a boy: Harry felt that he would spend a long time with the humans, and he preferred not to be asked questions about his life expectancy; he also knew that Vortigern's heightened paranoia would be lowered when confronted to a mere boy. Thankfully, he had already found, several millennia ago, how to use his magic to alter his physical age, and he could return to his kid years quite easily. He had already done so without any incentive on several occasions, if only to enjoy the different kinds of childhoods that were going on wherever he went.

Like most men of this era, Vortigern believed in presages, and, although he found strange the fact that a seven-year-old boy could have the answer to his predicament, he demanded to see him. When, having retrieved a child's appearance, Harry was presented to the high king, he introduced himself as "Harold of Myridine" but the immature voice carried badly over the din that was the high king's meeting room and everyone only heard a mangled version of the last word. Vortigern would call him Myrddin, and so would his successors.

And, seven centuries later, the poet Geoffrey of Monmouth would write his name as… Merlin.

When asked about it, Harry told Vortigern a fable story about a subterranean lake with two fighting dragons. The king was curious about this and ordered his men to dig far into the earth. Taking advantage of the fact that everybody was focused on the digging, Harry brought forth his powers of illusion and made the prediction appear true. He created a white dragon and a red one, and the two fought viciously. For a moment, the white seemed to win, but the red one struck and the two of them exploded in a blinding and deafening explosion. When pressed for explanation, Harry told the king that he often had this king of visions. Although he didn't have to explain it, Harry told the king that the white dragon represented him and the red was Ambrose – who had, by now, grown into a fine young man. After all, Ambrose's family emblem was a red dragon's head.

When Ambrose came into power after Vortigern's defeat, he kept the strange boy as a private advisor and the two of them worked well. Among other things, they built a tomb for the 500 nobles slaughtered by the Saxons. Harry chose the building site carefully, selecting one where the concentration of magic in the land was already strong, and he went with Gwthyr to collect magical stone slabs in Ireland. They called the site the Giant's Ring, but future generation would refer to it as Stonehenge. Even though he won several great battles against the Saxons, Ambrose was poisoned by his enemies and he was interred there as well.

And, when he died, his brother Gwthyr assumed the role of king. Gwthyr, whose name had been Britonized into Uther, would later be called with his family name: Uther Pendragon.

* * *

_**Several years later…**_

For the umpteenth time, Harry crumbled the parchment and sent it to a wastebasket – he would later magic the trash there into new working material – and took another one out. He had several unresolved issues which were wearing on him. Of course, there was the job of Uther's Royal Advisor and Archmage, but he had his personal quests too. He wanted to catch Arimathea one day or another, but he had long since reflected that a group of well-trained people could do almost as well as he did. Better, even, since they could cover more land. All he had to do was to prepare the men physically, spiritually, and magically. And he had an almost ready way to acquire this kind of men: an order of chivalry. His quill on the parchment, he started writing doodles again, thinking about shapes for the knighthood's meeting table. So far, he hadn't found anything as perfect as a circle: contrarily to rectangular tables, people sitting at a round table were all equal.

His liege barged in suddenly, irrupted in his study. "Please, old friend." Uther whined – a sound Harry despised, especially coming from supposedly great men like the king. "I want her. I _need_ her."

Harry rolled his eyes. Uther had been ranting on Lady Ygerna – wife of Gorlois, Duke of Cornwall, and notably neutral in the ongoing war – for weeks. In that time, the whole kingdom had seemed to slow down while the king lamented on a woman he couldn't have. Harry had other priorities: creating the knighthood, protecting the Elven forests, and bring a durable peace onto the realm… but the king hadn't listened a word from his speeches.

The worst was that Uther knew Harry was able to do magic. In almost all battles he had been in, Harry had made discreet use of it to ensure their victory against overwhelming foes. And the king wanted his mage to help by using that magic.

To be honest, Ygerna really was a magnificent woman, and Harry had no doubt that she was a Veel. By now, Uther was completely entranced, and even magic wasn't able to keep his thoughts away from her for more than an hour. What was worse was that Gorlois knew about it. The Duke had returned to Cornwall and was keeping to his castle.

"Uther, Uther, Uther." Harry called to the pacing king. "If you continue like that, you'll dig a hole in my carpet."

"But I love her!" the king wailed.

Harry winced at the plaintive tone, and thought that it would be best for the king to be safely tucked in his bed. Standing, he approached his potion cupboard and addressed him. "Come here, Uther."

The king nodded absently, and took the potion Harry gave him.

"Go to your bedroom and drink this. It will help you sleep tonight. And be patient. All things happen to he who wait."

The king gone, Harry continued to work on his project of knighthood, before he blew the candles out and went to bed.

Unbeknownst to him, a couple of hours after he left, several men approached his study.

"Patient! Patient, the coward says! I – am – not – patient!" a rough voice muttered angrily. "And I won't sleep alone, far from my one true love."

"My king!" another voice whispered urgently. "You don't want to grab the mage's attention right now!"

Uther seemed to regain a proper countenance and, looking left and right, he motioned his men forward.

Later, Harry would lament about being organized in his study of magic, about trusting Uther, about sleeping far from his study… and about not warding said study.

The next day, Harry awoke quite late, and was surprised not to hear Uther's wails of loneliness resounding through the castle. He went to the breakfast table and was starting to demolish a sturdy meal when one of the castle boys hurried to his side.

"Ma… master Ma… Mage… your… your stu… study."

Harry turned towards the young boy. "What is it, Pug?" he asked gently, conveying comforting feelings at the same time.

His apprentice straightened up and continued. "The door to your study has been found open this morning, sir." The boy said, surprised at his newfound confidence. "And it appears that some cupboards have been opened as well. We didn't dare touch- eeek!"

The boy immediately scurried away as Harry jumped to his feet. The Mage rushed through the castle, surprising servants and nobles alike. He skidded to a stop at his destroyed study door and, entering cautiously, he looked around. Few bottles were missing, but, when he recognized which ones were, understanding dawned on him and he slumped forward, his fists hitting the table so hard that the wood cracked. Harry closed his eyes, trying to reign in his anger. When they opened, it was obvious that he hadn't succeeded, as they were burning with rage. He stood up and, arms outstretched, let out a scream of anger.

"UUUUTHEEEER!"

A hundred leagues away, on his way to Cornwall, Uther Pendragon stopped his horse, looking back fearfully. His faithful knights stopped as well, looking around in search of what had disturbed their leader.

"What is it, my king?" one of them asked.

The king merely shook his head and feverishly spurred his horse forward again, and the men followed.

That evening, they reached Tintagel, the castle of Duke Gorlois, and dismounted. They then uncorked the potions they had nicked from Harry's lab and downed them. One of the knights became strong as an ox while another disappeared from view, and others had other strange abilities. Using their new strengths, they brought down the few guards at the door without raising alarm, and finally reached the Duke's antechamber – Uther knew most of the castle's layout from an earlier visit, and he had imparted that knowledge to his men. Once again, they succeeded in subduing him before he could raise the alarm. Uther smiled at his rival wickedly and snatched one of his hairs which he dropped into one of Harry's experimental potions. Downing it, his features morphed into Gorlois', and his knights dragged a shocked Duke into a side room before stabbing him in the heart and chucking him through the open window into the moat below.

It was just in time, though, because a detachment of Gorlois' guards irrupted in the room. "Are you alright, my Lord?" their sergeant asked.

"Why?" Uther answered curtly, not wanting to waste any moment of his triumph in dallying with petty guards.

"We found the portcullis guards killed! Intruders could roam the castle, and…"

"Well, I'm fine." A pause. "What are you waiting for? Post some guards at the entrance of this room if you need to, and search the castle." he finished, dismissing them with a wave of his hand.

Gorlois' men bowed and exited the room, not without a look to the duke's strange attire.

An attire which quickly fell to the floor as Uther entered the other side room – the bedroom which Gorlois shared with his wife.

* * *

_**An hour later…**_

Harry finally arrived in view of Tintagel. He had used his magic to increase his mount's speed to a viable maximum, but, despite doubling said speed, it hadn't been enough to reach Cornwall before Uther, and Harry had a sense of impeding disaster. He had never had this sense of urgency before, but he supposed that living among the same humans for too long could do that to his millennia-borne patience. As he dismounted and walked towards the door, he absently thought that he should develop a way of magically transporting himself over great distances. The guards of Tintagel tried to stop him, but he was on a mission and immobilized them with a wave of his hand, before heading directly to the Duke's bedroom. In there, after locking the door behind him, he approached the bed and ripped the heavy curtains open. And he found Uther and Ygerna, both of them naked and asleep, with no doubt as to their earlier activities.

"Uther Pendragon!" he yelled, waking the two of them.

However, whatever he wanted to say afterwards was muted when the Duchess shrieked in outrage. "You are not Gorlois!" she exclaimed as she was extracting herself from his embrace and covering herself with a sheet. Then, she slapped him, hard, and turned towards Harry, waving her finger accusingly. "Mage! I consider it your fault since only you could have used your unnatural ways to put… _him_… in my bed."

Harry was gobsmacked, but Uther prevented him from making an impression of a goldfish for too long. Well… sort of.

"Ygerna, I love you." he said, kneeling in front of the quickly recoiling woman. "I want to marry you. I want you to bear my children." He then turned to Harry. "By my right as king, I recognize any child she might have as mine." he finished stubbornly, and Harry sighed. The king's inflexibility was a good thing in the affairs of the state, but it was nor the time nor the place to be so.

"Marry me?" she exclaimed, turning to him in anger. "Why… How… I…" She then gasped, the reality of the situation dawning on her. Harry turned to him as well.

"How can you marry her?" Harry asked. "She's married already!"

Uther raised his chin in defiance. "Since Gorlois is dead, she can marry me, now."

"Gorlois is… _dead?_" she asked in disbelief.

Uther nodded and looked at her adoringly, and Harry began to feel really angry at his king's wiliness. An inarticulate growl started in his throat, and a cold wind irrupted in the bedroom, making the few remaining curtains flowing menacingly.

"Uther!" he exclaimed. His eyes flashed dangerously, and the addressed king began to realize his error. "You will now leave Lady Ygerna and Tintagel, and you will return to your castle on your own. Do not try to find her again. And don't seek me again, for I leave your side."

"What do you mean?" a shocked Uther asked.

Harry turned to Ygerna. "From now on, I will put myself in Lady Ygerna's service. If she will have me."

The woman looked at him shrewdly. After several seconds of thinking, she acquiesced. "I might have a use in your services, mage. I accept."

"But… How will… I…" Uther stuttered. "What will I do without you?"

"You will take your responsibilities, and wage your wars alone. And, from now on," he added, his eyes glinting, "you are not welcome to Cornwall anymore."

Harry glared at Uther, but his mind was elsewhere. The Elven Seers of England had prophesied the end of the current humans' war at the hands of a Pendragon. And Uther was the last of his line. That meant that he was going to succeed against the Saxons, right? All of a sudden, as he was glaring at the poor excuse for a king, Harry was not so sure.

The king gulped and, noticing that Ygerna was glaring at him equally fiercely, he turned heel, gathered his men, and fled Tintagel.

The crisis passed, Ygerna dropped to her bed and began to cry.

"My Lady…" Harry started.

"I'm not your lady!" she exclaimed angrily, tears still flowing. "I won't forget your actions, nor will I forgive you. I should demand your death for your crime!" she yelled, before breaking down. "What will I do with the child?"

"What do you mean, Lady Ygerna? Surely you aren't-"

She waved her arm, interrupting him. "Gorlois and I were… we were…" she swallowed, gathered her dignity, and stared at him. "We were trying to have an heir. This was the best night for me. I am sure that a child will be born from this… unholy tryst. And there is no way for me to take care of it."

Harry nodded, his head low in guilt at his carelessness. "Do you want me to… take care of the… problem?"

She shook her head vehemently, though. "Even if I don't want the child, I don't want to kill it either. I won't be one to call for the angel makers."

He acquiesced, and thought hard about the problem. A few seconds later, he looked up. "I will, Lady Ygerna. I will take the child."

The woman looked at him sharply. "Will you, mage? Will you take care of a child? What experience do you have in that regard?"

Harry smiled. "I could surprise you with my experience, my Lady, but it isn't what I was considering. You'd be right on one point, though: my life style isn't adapted to the care of young children. I swear to you, however, that I will find a worthy house for the child to live in, and I will be on his side for however long he might live afterwards."

A pause ensued, and Ygerna eventually nodded. "Alright, then. And, in the meantime, I want to learn your art, mage." she finished, smirking.

"Learn my art?" he asked disbelievingly.

"Yes, I do." she answered, her jaw set.

Harry looked at her but he could see that she was resolute. After seeing with his magic that she wouldn't do evil with the knowledge he could impart her, he accepted.

The two of them spent several years together, and Ygerna learned to see the beauty of the nature around her. They discovered that she could harness only a bit of its power, but it was still more than what humans could – which in turn confirmed Harry's initial idea about her lineage. However, she wasn't magical enough to actually do something with it, and Harry started another research pathway, this time in magical foci. It took him a whole year, but he succeeded in creating a staff containing some of his essence and the power of several magical beings. The staff proved itself useful several times, providing Harry with an additional reserve of magic.

However, the staff wasn't attuned with Ygerna, and she preferred something less cumbersome. He simplified the process and came up with the first magical wand of history. Now able to focus her magic properly, she learnt even faster. She even assisted Harry in making a sword out of mithril when he asked for her assistance. The sword was strong enough to slice through steel, and, therefore, they called it _ex calibur_ – cut-steel.

Later, Lady Ygerna would find herself a distinct affinity with water and would build herself a house in the depth of a clear lake, to spend most of the rest of her long life in contemplation. The rest of the time, she would meet her daughters Elaine, Morgause, and Morgan le Fay. When asked about her unusual residence, she agreed to teach them some of the arts given to her by Harry, all the while unaware that their intentions could be less pure than her own.

* * *

Uther Pendragon, high king of Britain, was dead. His funeral brought many of the noblemen of the country, and several from the neighbouring states, all ready to jump on the now vacant throne. During the funeral, though, a thunderstorm broke through, and lightning was witnessed striking the cathedral's courtyard. When the nobles investigated, they found that an anvil had appeared there, resting upon a stone and with a sword embedded into both. On the anvil, there were a few words: "Whosoever pulleth out this sword of this stone and anvil is rightwise born King of all England."

Many a noble tried to remove the sword, but none prevailed, and, following the omen, Britain found itself devoid of a king. The local nobles ruled their fiefdoms, and a council was established to manage the affairs of the state. Needless to say, it wasn't very efficient, as each of the lords tried to get advantages over the others.

In one of the smallest counties, a knight named Ector was quite far from these political affairs. He knew about them, of course, but his highest ambition was for his young son Kay, currently a squire to one of his fellow knights, to gain enough experience and glory to be knighted himself. Sir Ector had another charge, but the young Arthur wasn't his own son, and, although he treated him fine, he wasn't pushing his career forward like he did for Kay.

A couple of years after Uther's death, things hadn't moved much in Sir Ector's castle. One after the other, the other children living in the castle – most of them children of castle workers – had attained the age of 14 and had to find a real job. The boys either left to try to find a situation by themselves, or they had the luck of catching the eye of a trade master and being apprenticed to them. The girls had a different fate, either being employed for the castle maintenance or finding a husband. Arthur was nearing that fateful age, but he had no real prospect in that regard.

Most of the time, Arthur was dreaming. He was dreaming about being a squire, like his guardian's son. He was dreaming about battles, and about legendary figures. He knew that he wasn't Ector's son, and, sometimes, he daydreamed about rich and long-lost relatives taking him away from Sir Ector's castle.

One particular day, Kay rode back from London and requested a private audience with his father. A rumour started to float around, and it quickly evolved into an uproar. Apparently, the council of nobles had finally reached a decision to get rid of their inefficient ruling system, and they had organized a tournament, the winner of which would be declared king. The hubbub was mainly due to the fact that Kay had been knighted a few weeks earlier, and had registered to participate to the tournament.

And, since Kay didn't have a squire yet, Arthur was promptly appointed to his side.

As was the custom, the tournament's main activity was jousting. Its rules stated that, if both knights were down, they had to continue the fight with their swords, which they had to have from the start. Arthur was new to being a squire, and, overwhelmed by the excitement of the tournament and his hands already full with Kay's armour and other equipment, he forgot Kay's sword in the inn room they were staying at. He was quickly sent to search for it, but got lost in the large city and eventually ended up in an empty courtyard… where a sword was stuck in an anvil.

Seeing that no one was around, and not knowing the direction to the inn, he pondered his options. It could be considered a theft, but if Kay lost, he would lose his honour. Besides, the sword was offered to any and all who could take it, right? And a sword was like any other sword, wasn't it? His mind set up, Arthur decided to take what was offered to him and went to the sword. Surprisingly, it came off with no effort at all. Not having time for hanging around, he ran back to the tournament and the tent in which Sir Kay was preparing himself, assisted by Sir Ector.

Sir Kay immediately recognized that it wasn't his sword. After scolding his squire, he took a closer look and his eyes widened. Ever since he had started his own knighthood, he had learnt about the sword in the stone and had visited the isolated courtyard a couple of times, trying to get the sword.

"Look, father!" he exclaimed. "Look! I got the _sword from the stone_!"

The old lord knew about the sword, of course. He looked at it closely and recognized that it was either the genuine article or a perfect copy. His son was practically jumping in joy at winning the sought-after throne without actually fighting, but Ector grabbed his shoulder.

"Son," he spoke, his wisdom shining through, "did _you_ pull the sword from the stone? Did you _do_ it?"

Kay seemed ready to boast, to lie about it, but one look at his father's serious eyes prevented him to. 'A true knight shall not lie.' he thought, remembering one of his father's early teachings. Besides, Kay had been with his father the whole time, and there was no way he could have taken the sword earlier and kept it silent until now. Reluctantly, he turned his head towards Arthur, who hadn't left, eyes wide at the display. When Sir Ector followed his gaze and noticed the lad, he started.

"Arthur? Did you really pull that sword off a stone?" he asked. "It wasn't just lying around?"

"I did, sir. There was an anvil as well, and… there was something written on it, but it was almost unreadable – and I had to come back for…"

Sir Ector knew that Arthur wasn't one to lie, especially when he was so serious. Suddenly, several pieces clicked into place. He dropped to his knees in front of the startled boy and looked at him as though he was seeing him for the first time. "Of course. The mage said something about Destiny."

"What do you mean?" the frightened teenager asked, his eyes darting between the two men.

"You know you were given to me when you were a wee boy, don't you?"

"Yes, Sir Ector."

"Well, the man delivering you was the mage."

"A mage?"

"No. _The_ mage. Myrddin, the advisor of our former king Uther." He frowned. "Now that I think of it, it is a wonder that the mage left the king's side, only to deliver you." He shook himself. "But that's in the past. Now…"

Arthur and Kay gasped when Sir Ector extended his right arm, palm downward. "On my life and soul, I swear my fealty unto you, my king." The old knight said solemnly.

"What?" the two young men asked.

"Kay, I advise you to do the same, as Arthur here is the designated king of England, now."

The young knight frowned, thinking hard of how to address his former squire. After a few seconds, his mind was set and he pledged his loyalty as well. As true knights, both of them would stay at the king's side until the end.

"Great!" Sir Ector said, standing up before heading towards the tent's entrance.

"What are you doing?" Arthur asked.

"I must tell everyone about the good news!"

"No!" Arthur exclaimed fearfully.

Ector stopped. "No? What do you mean?"

Arthur's eyes darted around the room. Sure, he had dreamed about fantastic things and the like, but these didn't include him being propelled high king of his country. He didn't know anything of the duties of a king. "How… I… They wouldn't believe you!" he exclaimed, grasping at straws.

It seemed effective, though, because Ector actually thought about it. Then, a rare glint of cunning appeared in the old knight's eyes. "You and Kay go back to the anvil and put the sword back in. I will bring noblemen to testify." His eyes hardened. "Be sure that you _can _remove it, or my reputation will suffer greatly."

Arthur nodded absently, and Kay wrapped the sword in a cloth before leading him towards the famed courtyard. While Ector was trying his best to bring the nobles to the same place, Arthur and Kay repeated the process: after putting the sword back in, Kay tried to remove it unsuccessfully and Arthur did it effortlessly. They put it back in and waited. Soon, the lords arrived, followed by the local population curious about the unexpected event. Needless to say, the nobles scoffed at seeing the lad near the sword.

When Arthur took the sword, though, their laughs stopped short. Many of them argued that it was a fluke and demanded to try again – they were sure that the enchantments were broken. None prevailed and Arthur succeeded in taking the sword again.

"I won't recognize that peasant as my king!" several of them exclaimed afterwards, while others appeared doubtful.

Suddenly, an icy wind blew through the courtyard, bringing frost to the hair of the nobles. Curiously, Arthur and his two knights – Ector and Kay – weren't affected by the wind.

A loud voice then echoed in the yard. "I WILL!"

And, under the nobles' surprised eyes, a tall figure appeared between them and Arthur. A figure most of them recognized at once, even if it had been several years since they had last seen it.

"The mage! Myrddin!" were the cries of the population, while the nobles were struck speechless.

"As shown by the Lord's will," Harry started, using words that the people around would understand – it was of no use to tell them that _he _had put the sword there – "I recognize Arthur as my king and as high king of all England." In the shocked silence, he continued. "And, so as to prove that he is indeed worthy by blood, I hereby reveal his name." With a swirl of his cloak, he turned to the equally shocked and newly-appointed king. "I welcome you, Arthur Pendragon, son of King Uther and Lady Ygerna, and grandson of Emperor Constantine."

Needless to say, the uproar at this declaration was one to be remembered.

* * *

Harry spent many years at Arthur's side. The lad was young and inexperienced in state affairs, but, now that his birthright had been confirmed, he was willing to learn quickly. Harry helped him in battles, and helped him in the affairs of the state. He helped him erect a castle in a place where the king came a lot to rest – hence the name: Camelot. Harry also pushed his own agenda forward, and made Arthur create an order of knighthood totally devoted to him. Since these knights were the ones closest to the king and the spearhead of his armies, they had to be the strongest men, with the purest intentions. The design for these knights' meeting room was finally made, including a large and round table. Harry included a testing process in the seats, making any unworthy candidate being teleported somewhere else. Ultimately, the knighthood would include heroic characters like Gawain, Perceval, Tristan, and a quite young Lancelot – the man having been found as an infant and then adopted by the Lady of the Lake – and, later, Lancelot's son Galahad.

It was only when the Saxons were ultimately defeated by Arthur's armies that Harry was able to actually use the knighthood for his own goals. By now, the knights were hardened by numerous battles, and Harry made sure that they would be able to deal with anything thrown their way – be it werewolves, vampires, or any other unnatural creature. Then he half-created the legend of the Holy Grail and sent the knights in search of the famous cup and its holder.

Using his magic, Harry was able to see what the knights saw, and, when Galahad was the one to actually reach the Grail, he teleported himself right next to him. Teleporting wasn't instantaneous, though, and he arrived only to see a dead Galahad curled on the floor and holding his stomach, an empty cup thrown on the floor next to him. And, behind him, a smirking person Harry knew very well.

"Joseph." he said angrily.

"Myrddin." the other nodded. "Or is it Jesus? Or…" he frowned, and Harry felt light touches in his mind. "What _is _your name?"

The touches intensified, and Harry recognized his own memories flashing by. He closed his own eyes, trying to push the mind invader back. The vampire being quite strong in mind-reading, Harry didn't succeed in pushing his attack away, and more memories flashed by. He opened his eyes again and noticed that his archenemy had closed his eyes, frowning in concentration. Harry could still move, though, and he jumped towards the vampire and, in a fluid motion, pushed the pointy end of his staff through the vampire's heart.

Joseph opened his eyes wide, his concentration broken. He looked at Harry, then at the staff, then back at Harry with a smirk. "You know, you can't kill me like that. I'm not like my children. Or those pathetic whelps you sent towards me." he finished, motioning towards the dead paladin.

"Your dark age is coming to an end, Joseph."

"You wish. Even if you got me, I have followers all around the world. Who do you think pushed the Saxons, Goths, and other Vikings onto Europe? And I still haven't got your name." Joseph said, his eyes widening as he remembered his mental plunge into Harry's memories. "How… Just how old are you?"

Harry thought about it, but he could only answer truthfully. "I don't know."

"You're immortal." It wasn't a question.

"So it seems."

"I am too, now." Joseph said with a smirk, while trying to remove Harry's staff from his chest.

"I disagree. You know, I learnt many things that could be done with a staff."

"What kind of things?" Joseph asked arrogantly.

In answer, Harry focused his magic onto the staff, and magical energy erupted from its pointy end. Joseph screamed as he was burned from the inside out, by a power greater than the sun rays that the young vampires feared. Strangely, something began to ooze off of him, unconcerned by the magical flames. Harry summoned the empty cup and positioned it under the liquid, recovering most of it. When the last drop fell, Joseph emitted a last shriek which was interrupted as his whole body turned to ash and fell to the ground. Harry moved his hands and a gust of wind picked up, blowing the ash off the room and into the night sky.

Harry then put a stopper on the cup and pocketed it, before kneeling next to the fallen knight. "I'm sorry, Galahad. You were a fine young man, and you deserved a better life than the one I gave you."

Harry cried for the lives lost to his cause, and for the numerous lives lost due to humans' treachery. And, after burying the body and hiding the cup, he returned to Camelot. Once there, he found the king conspicuously absent and learnt that there had been battles going on while he was focusing on the quest for the Grail. Harry left and reached Arthur at Camlann, only to witness the last blow of the treacherous Sir Mordred onto the king, his own father.

* * *

_**Later…**_

Having trained Lady Ygerna in his art, Harry didn't see any problem in raising a few worthy young men and women into the fine art of magic. At that time, several were eligible, having a speckle of Veel blood in their veins – the origin of which being somewhat hard to ascertain since it was stronger or weaker following the marriages. Harry taught them how to make wands and how to use them to cast spells. Since it was easier for them to concentrate with a fixed mind set, he taught them spells using key words. It wasn't these words which made the spell successful, though, but the will shown in speaking it. Finally, he also taught them about how to brew potions.

One of his students was a wood sculptor, who belonged to a family of wood sculptors dating almost a millennium ago. He took to the art of wand-making very well, and was quickly promoted official wand-maker of the magical population. His name was Oliver Ollivander.

Years and decades evolved into centuries, and Harry continued to roam the world. Trying to detach himself from the humans, he kept to the forests more and more, only able to play his lyre peacefully there. Incidentally, the people who knew about him nicknamed him "the wild" because of this. It was during one of these peaceful interludes that he met a beautiful woman named Nimue. She had learnt magic from Harry's students before, and she had been redirected to him when, impressed by the true story of the Lady of the Lake, she wanted to learn more. Not sensing any bad intention and perceiving a strong magic in the woman as well as a will to learn, Harry complied, and the two of them spent a dozen years together. People of opposite sex living together in nature for so long were deemed to have some kind of intimate relationship, and Harry felt that his feelings of love were returned in kind.

It was a hard slap in the face, then, when, having extracted all knowledge from him, the woman used it _against_ him. Stealing his staff while he was sleeping, she used her powers and her knowledge, as well as the staff's, to imprison him in a sphere of indestructible alabaster. She then laughed at his powerlessness and, using the staff, buried his prison into the depth of the river bank on which they had been resting.

Harry tried to escape his prison by teleporting out of it, but Nimue had used every trick she knew to contain him inside, and that meant every trick _he _knew as well. He tried to break his prison using magic, but each and every spell was reflected back towards him, and he had a bad time trying to dodge them. He tried using his magical song, but the matter was also shielded against that kind of attack. Seeing that magical attacks weren't successful, he started to use the shape-shifting abilities he had expanded since discovering about Animagus abilities. He tried to outgrow the prison, but it failed, only earning him aching muscles and bones. He then tried to attack the mineral with his hands, and then with claws he grew, but it didn't work either. After a long while, the air around him started to lack oxygen, and, after a few last attempts at breaking the sphere with his claws, he fell into unconsciousness.

Harry would stay that way for a long time. A _very _long time.

_**To be continued in next chapter: Inheritance and Awakening...**_

_Some pious figures and heroes,  
Some abnormal beasts abound,  
Merlin wins but get new foes.  
He now sleeps, beaten and bound._


	5. Inheritance and Awakening

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX  
**Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings. Author's Notes at the end._

**Chapter 5 – Inheritance and Awakening  
**_posted February 6__th__, 2008_

Nimue watched as the white sphere sank in the earthen soil as though it was a mere liquid. The power the staff was giving her was intoxicating, and she wasn't going to relinquish her grasp anytime soon. Using that power, she made the return trip almost instantaneously, even travelling over the large ocean in between. Once in England, she returned to her hometown, where her dreams of conquest awaited, yearning for fulfilment.

However, a few months after having created the fortress that was going to be her home, and after putting the local inhabitants and creatures under an iron fist, she found a slight discrepancy to her plans.

She was pregnant. And heavily so.

In her romp with the archmage, she had taken no risk for her true intent to be discovered, and thus had taken no particular precaution. As the saying goes, her emotions were now in turmoil, due to the life developing in her womb. Despite her initial rejection of her situation, she decided not to do anything drastic about it.

That's why, in the few decades before the millennium, she gave birth to twins. A boy and a girl, whom she named Salazar and Rowena.

Smiling at them, she decided to impart them with as much knowledge as she could, so that, in the unlikely event of her demise, they could continue her quest.

That thoughtful decision didn't last more than a couple decades, though. Over the years, she became more and more paranoid, afraid of leaving her quarters in the highest tower in fear of someone stealing her staff. She warded the area heavily, but, given that stray animals were already pushed away by the fortress' own wards, she didn't include a ward against them.

Meanwhile, the children followed their mother's footsteps… although not in the same way. Rowena took to learning with a passion, while Salazar became obsessed with power. And animals. Particularly snakes. The children became young adults, and, as was the rule at the time, the girl was wed to a powerful man living in a neighbouring county, Lord Ravenclaw.

During his adolescent years, Salazar discovered several means of mixing herbs and magical plants to create powerful draughts. A few years later, in a display of genius not unlike his sister's, he succeeded in making a potion to allow him to transform into animals. It was when he tried to show his achievement to his mother that he entered her warded quarters as a snake, one night.

She was asleep, the staff resting loosely in her hand. Despite all her knowledge, she had never found a way to make it stick to her permanently. The magical item was obeying her wishes, but it knew that she wasn't his owner, and did so with a palpable reluctance. Hence her paranoia.

Mesmerized by the waves of power coming from the staff, Salazar transformed back into his human shape and took it in his hand.

That woke his mother, and, in her half-asleep state, she didn't recognize her own son, thinking that it was some thief despite the protections the castle had against those.

She attacked, viciously.

And he defended, cautiously.

But something tipped the scales against Nimue: the staff added its power to the young man's counterspells, and, before either of them could grasp the situation fully, Nimue was thrown through the window by her own Banishing spell reflected on her.

"Mother!" Salazar exclaimed, dropping the staff and hurrying to the broken window. He knew the glass had been magically reinforced, but the short magical battle had involved too much power for the whole room – which was now in shambles – lest alone a single glass window.

Carefully leaning to see the outside, he noticed his mother in the moon light, and the sight made him want to retch: she had fallen from the high tower onto one of the numerous courtyard fences, impaling herself.

He hurried through the corridors, intending to save her despite his intellect telling him that it was too late. Once there, he noticed that she was already dead, the spikes having pierced her frail body in several places.

Kneeling and babbling incoherent sentences, he wept for his mother. It would be the last time Salazar would either kneel, babble, or weep.

An hour later, he stood up resolutely, and Summoned his mother's body. And they both disappeared.

* * *

The logistics of managing a castle implied to have numerous servants to clean it, and a paid military force to protect it from invaders. It often had some additional place for guests, as well as some quarters should the nearby town be evacuated – generally, the food eaten by the castle's inhabitant had to be grown on site, as the roads were quite dangerous at that time.

It took a month for the garrisoned soldiers to leave, their weekly wages unpaid for too long. With them, they took anything of value they could find and pay themselves with – which wasn't much, since they were non-magical people and much of the valuables in the stronghold were protected with a spell of some kind.

It took another month for the servants to leave, the castle's food reserves having dwindled to nothing in the meantime. The inhabitants of the local town knew that the masters of the castle had disappeared, but they had no interest in managing said castle.

A year later, a strong-willed knight and his curious wife, Lord and Lady Gryffindor, arrived in the hamlet, said wife's place of birth, for a visit to her dying mother. Curious about the abandoned fortress, the knight asked to visit it, and it was the first time in a year that the abandoned building saw humans beings in its halls again.

Godric and Helga didn't want the stronghold to fall in ruins, for different reasons. The knight saw its strategic placement and eventual garrison – as a knighted noble, he could benefit from taxes and inhabit such a castle. Helga had lived in the village in her youth and had worked in the castle itself, and it was more for a sentimental reason.

Not wanting to usurp someone else's rights, though, they sent a messenger to the previous Lady's daughter, Rowena. Upon hearing that her mother and brother were considered missing, the young woman left her husband in a hurry – to tell the truth, she was slightly bored by his mundane nature.

The sorceress was welcomed by Godric and Helga, and she asked them to follow as she re-explored the whole castle. Discovering that her mother's wards were still active, she dispelled them, and the three of them found that the castle hadn't been completely robbed. She found her mother's quarters in disarray and devoid of Nimue's formidable presence. Her brother's rooms were furnished as they had always been and equally empty of human presence.

"What do you want us to do, milady?" the knight asked.

The question took her by surprise. She had always loved learning, but she didn't know what else to do. However, the availability of so much learning material, as well as a large building with many rooms, could be interesting for others. "A school."

"What?"

She nodded decisively, before turning to the gobsmacked couple – it was understandable: very few schools existed at that time. "This castle will be a school of witchcraft, and wizardry." She then frowned thoughtfully. She knew she was able to spend long moments immersed in research, and she knew other people, more down-to-earth than she was, were needed for the school to actually work. "You two seem resourceful. Will you help me lead it?"

After a pause, during which the two looked at each other, they turned to her and acquiesced. "We will, milady." Godric said.

"Besides," his wife started, "it would be a shame for your brother's greenhouses to fall into disuse. I have worked there when I was young, and they were so... interesting."

"How are we going to name it?" Rowena asked herself, tapping her chin with a finger.

Helga blushed a bit, but valiantly gave a proposal. "Milady, the locals already have a name for the castle." He waited the regal lady's nod to continue. "Since the village nearby has been called Hog's Meade for a long time, the locals already have given the castle a nickname."

"What is it, then?"

"It's Hog's Wart." the younger woman muttered. "Forgive us."

Rowena's reaction wasn't the one the couple was waiting: she laughed. "I knew that." she told them after several uncomfortable seconds. "Don't you think we witches have a way to hear things unsaid?"

They blushed, and she laughed some more, before starting to discuss of the logistics of a overhaul of such massive proportions – after all, they had to transform most of the rooms into usable classrooms, as well as living quarters for the future students.

* * *

The school was not an immediate success, but it gathered more and more students as its prestige expanded, from their county to the whole country, going then to the natural frontiers of the British Isles. But it was years later, when the news reached the Continent and a particular man, that they encountered their first problems.

Salazar came back. Right in the middle of dinner. Right in the middle of the Dining Hall. After all, the castle had been his house for a long time, and he knew ways to get there magically.

The shocked surprise passed, Rowena sent the students to their quarters, before addressing her twin brother.

"What do you want, Sal?"

The black-clad man sneered at her. "You know that I don't like nicknames, _Ro_."

Usually, such endearing terms were common among siblings. But, in his mouth, the word took a different meaning, mocking her and all that was her.

She shrugged, but she was also apprehensive. That way of greetings hadn't been uncommon between them, in the past. Now, though, the aggressiveness she had perceived behind Salazar's few words was ringing a warning bell in her mind.

"Am I not allowed to return home?" he asked, equally mockingly. "I only left because of mother's death. I had... things... to arrange. And much to grieve for."

The sentence was left hanging purposefully. The man knew how it would be taken, and, while true, it didn't mean that he left to bury her – after all, a burial didn't take years to arrange. What he didn't say was his thirst for power, and his acknowledgement that knowledge led to power. He had long since known that his mother knew more than him, and that she was more powerful as well. So, after placing Nimue's body in stasis, he had immersed himself in studies about Death itself, acquiring books and artifacts from several places. When ready, he had taken control of her spirit, and written down almost everything she knew. _That _had taken years.

"When I learnt that my castle was turned into a school, I was curious." he said, not bothering to correct himself into accepting his sister as joint owner of said castle. Being born a few minutes before her, and being a male, he had first dibs on their inheritance. "I'm quite... thrilled... by the chance to teach magic to the future generations."

Rowena was no fool, but heer brother's silver tongue got the better of her, and she relented. "Alright, Salazar. Let's join the feast, and we can talk about the topics you'd like to teach."

"Later, perhaps." he replied. "I have to install my basil- my pet... and get reacquainted with my quarters."

"You have a pet?"

"Yes, and she's quite intelligent, too."

"I tried to impart owls with some intelligence, too." she said, her studious nature coming to the fore again. "But with out much luck until now. What did you do?"

"Later, dear sister. Later."

She nodded, and, while she returned to her seat, the man left, his black robes billowing behind him.

Rowena noticed the gaze Helga was throwing to her brother's back. "Something's the matter?"

"Well... if I may be bold, milady..." the witch started.

Rowena frowned, not only because this kind of sentence often ended with words that weren't soft. And, despite their numerous discussions, the younger woman was still very formal when addressing her.

When she nodded, Helga continued. "When I travelled alongside Godric, I have often met with strangers. Some were aggressive, some weren't, and some were all smiles while plotting behind our backs. I have often discovered their intentions early on, though."

"True." her knight of a husband added. "My wife's intuition is often successful, and had helped us in many endeavours."

"And what does your intuition has to do wit my brother?"

"I don't like him." the blonde woman finished, looking down.

To her surprise, Rowena laughed softly. "He has always been a little rough." she said. "You probably noticed that he hadn't mellowed with time. But he has always protected me and this castle with utmost devotion." A pause. "I think we can trust him."

It was the worst decision that she could have made.

* * *

As years came and went, the student population grew, and the four Founders decided to install them in separate quarters, named after them. Once again, a decision taken with the best interests at heart – at least from three of them – proved to be harmful.

Salazar Slytherin had begun his teaching career with Duelling and Potions, and he had carefully wormed his way into the minds of the most promising students in these two fields. Once separated from the other students, his followers were now in the perfect position for him to teach them the Dark Arts.

When the others found about him teaching a fifteen-year-old how to raise dead bodies, they were aghast. And Godric, having been properly raised as a knight, was particularly incensed about this crime against religion and decency. He left the blabbing boy and rushed to Slytherin's quarters.

"What, in the name of all that is holy, are you going on, there?" he yelled through the door he had just broken down.

"Holy, indeed." the other man sneered as he turned around to face his unexpected visitor. His robe billowed slightly, allowing him to reach for the wand hidden in its folds. "I'll show you what your mind clouded by religion can't accept!"

And a long string of Latin ensued, as Slytherin started to incant a particularly powerful Necromancy spell. One that could strip flesh from bone and leave a perfectly clean – and obedient – skeleton.

However, Godric was used to magic-users and knew of their weaknesses. He dived out of the way just as a sickly yellow ray headed his way, and noticing the hefty armchair there, he picked it up and threw it at his adversary, his anger mixed with the adrenaline in his veins allowing him this feat of strength. The sturdy piece of furniture crashed into Slytherin – who was in the middle of casting another spell – and broke the man's legs.

Thinking that he had the upper hand, Godric drew his wand and walked towards his downed enemy. He kicked the wand from Slytherin's weakened grip. "Do you yield?" he demanded, putting the tip of his blade under the man's chin.

Slytherin's eyes looked behind him and the man smirked. Thinking that it was a trick, Godric didn't turn around. It was his last thought, though, as bony hands grasped his throat from behind and started to choke him.

The grasp was unnaturally strong, and, despite him flailing his arms wildly and kicking at his new opponent, nothing could help him. He managed to turn around, once, only to be shocked by what he saw.

His own wife.

That is... a skeleton wearing his wife's clothes.

Apparently, when he had ducked Slytherin's spell earlier, said spell had continued into the corridor. Helga had heard about the commotion and had followed him, walking straight into a deathly trap. His last thoughts as the hands resumed choking him, digging into his flesh and drawing blood, was that he had failed her and the whole school.

That thought was what prevented his soul from passing away. And, much later, it would return to the school to keep an eye on the House of his nemesis, under the guise of an anonymous Bloody Baron.

Salazar Slytherin was used to pain, and he had Summoned his wand – every magic user worthy of his salt knew at least one wandless spell: that particular one. Healing not being his forte, he strengthened his legs and stood up slowly, before magically calling for his followers.

They came, but they weren't alone. Many of the other wizards followed them, as well as most of the castle's servants, Rowena behind them all.

It took few words to start the battle, and magic started to pour from the magical humans, heading toward each other. Harmful and debilitating magic. Several wizards fell from Necromantic curses. Many fell to animated bodies.

Unholy screams and explosions could be heard up to the village nearby. When it quieted, only two wizards were still standing: Rowena and Salazar.

"Join me now, sister." Salazar said, a bit out of breath. "Together, we will rule those peasants."

"They're human beings, just like you and me." she replied, holding her wounded arm against her chest.

"They don't have the right to learn magic! Magic is power, and you were going to give it away, to ungrateful barbarians, no less!"

"Knowledge is for everyone, brother."

A pause ensued, during which they evaluated each other and their opinions.

"I guess we have nothing in common, then." he said curtly.

She smiled sadly. She had known all her life that her brother preferred power over the thrill of learning. "I guess not. What are we going to do, now?" she asked, fully anticipating his answer.

"I take control of your school. _Avada Kedavra_!" he yelled, using the remains of magic he had to cast the cheapest Death curse he knew.

She had been ready, though, and her physical wound hadn't emptied her reserves. "Conjurus!" she replied, protecting herself by creating a sheet of metal in the curse's path. Taking a deep breath, she started another stream of incantations. "_Castellum Aegis Initio_! _Ingressus Et Familia Reddere Infectum Tu_!"

"What?" he exclaimed. Thinking that she was going to attack him, he had erected a shield, only to drop it in surprise at her first spell – a castle-wide ward activation sequence. His shield down, he had been caught by surprise by the second spell, an effect that continued after the spell was cast. After all, only family heads used to expel members from the fold. And to prevent him from entering the castle again... he had his special room and pet to take care of. "You can't-"

"Sorry, Sal." she whispered, raising her wand again. "_Abi In Malam Rem_!" she yelled.

"_Prot_-" Slytherin started to incant, only to be caught by the brunt of the spell. It was only his defensive magic and his innate knowledge of the Dark Arts that prevented him from following the spell's effect to the letter and be delivered to Satan in a hand basket. He was still thrown out of "his" castle, landing just outside the metal gates.

He spent an hour cursing, magically as well as mundanely, but it was in vain. Turning around, he decided to express his displeasure at being beaten by cursing many inhabitants of the nearby town. They tried to defend themselves, and later learnt means to kill wizards and witches for good: burn them.

While the witch hunts were under way in England, Salazar built himself a school in a secluded and harsh place, a school where he could strengthen the magic wielders and teach them his preferred topic. Thus came the Durmstrang Institute of Magic.

In the meantime, magical students returned to Hogwarts, slowly but steadily. Some spent a couple years there, while others stayed their whole life. With many generations of magic practitioners living under its roof, the castle would use the excess energy to enhance itself, acquiring a semi-sentience in the process, and reinforce the initial wards. These wards would stand for more than a millennium.

* * *

_**Meanwhile...**_

Har-Old of Myridine was dreaming. The hibernation he had been forced into didn't allow him anything else to do. The lack of oxygen was compensated by his magic, but only barely, and it would eventually leave him with completely depleted reserves. His mind was crumbling, little by little, but he stayed alive. And he dreamed.

And, in these dreams, he witnessed events occurring near him, as well as far from him.

He saw humans warring each other about territory and religion. He saw wizards and witches being hunted for being different. He saw some of them answering to violence with curses, the darkest ones bringing forth decades of illness upon the muggle towns – the Black Plague. He saw Conquistadores bringing the South American cultures to their heels. He saw pioneers and cow-boys battling Indians. He saw the coming and going of nations.

He dreamed.

And, then, one day, he stopped dreaming.

* * *

_**1871 (nearly a millennium later), Windsor, Canada...**_

Robert Derrevaux was one of the hundreds of people working on the project. His job, like the others', was simple: digging and shovelling tonnes of earth. The cities of Windsor and Detroit had come to an agreement, and a railroad tunnel was under construction.

The tools used in this endeavour were simple: some high-powered digging hammers, and many shovels. When Robert's hammer suddenly struck a hard surface, he swore. He dug more earth around the point of impact, and swore again: in front of him was a smooth and white surface.

"Trust the architects to direct us right into a calcareous slab!" he yelled to his co-worker, Daniel – he had to yell, in order to be heard over the din around them.

"Aye." the other replied, yelling as well. "And they'll never change the direction despite what we tell them."

"The Union will have their heads, if they continue to ignore us!" Robert answered, before striking a the hard surface in anger. To his astonishment, the impact had been different than his first tentative try. Instead of rebounding on the slab, his hammer had pierced right through. And lines were forming around the point of impact, surrounding small white blocks of alabaster-like stone.

The two workers noticed that these blocks were breaking under their feet, and they jumped back towards firmer ground. It was too late, though, to escape the rush of wind going towards the holes in the alabaster. And to escape the corresponding gust of foul-smelling gas.

They fell unconscious from the smell and the sudden lack of oxygen, and it was only thanks to the safety procedures that they would come out of it alive: a dozen of workers had noticed their fall, and, despite the smell, they were able to rope them up.

The next day, the Union stopped the digging operation, arguing about unsafe pockets of sulphur being in the ground beneath the river.

It took seven years for the project to return to its "tracks".

* * *

In the meantime, some people decided to investigate. The first team to do so was made of scientists whose specialization was geology: sulphur wasn't that rare, but it hadn't been found in the local underground yet.

Among those scientists, several were paid by the Canadian government, and, upon realizing _what _was under the broken white surface, they stopped the expedition and warned their employers.

The second team was made of eight persons, only half of whom being scientists. But they had nothing to do with geology, no. And the others were soldiers. All of them paid by the government, through a special budget no one was aware of. They all belonged to the secret services of Canada.

After all, while finding fossils wasn't something to be cautious about, finding _alive _fossils was – especially humanoids. Under the cover of secrecy, they brought their quarry to their base. There, the man-like creature – who so resembled an animal that his rescuers didn't know what species he was – would spend the best part of the next few decades recovering. And, during this coma, his subconscious would try to reverse the damage brought upon his body, recovering a human aspect little by little.

At least, after a millennium of captivity, he was now breathing.

* * *

_**Much later...**_

"He's nothing like the others, Professor." the assistant said. "At least, they move when you prod them."

"I know, Carol." the addressed man replied. "But, fortuitous as it is, we can only be thankful for it. Otherwise, the pain would have made him pass out alread-"

The assistant gasped when the man upon which they were working moved his arm unexpectedly. The mess that was his hand came real close to the Doctor's face, before falling on the side, inert again.

"From now on," the Professor started, "we'll bind him."

Carol nodded, white as a sheet.

* * *

The two men faced each other. They were sitting at a canteen table, one of them sipping a coffee while the other was reading his notes. The first was clothed in his usual white overall, while the second wore a faded suit. The only light was from a naked bulb over the table.

"There have been some research made recently." the suit-wearing man said.

"Since we are both here, I suspect that it has some import on our project?" the Doctor replied.

The other man nodded. His job wasn't to take care of patients. He worked for the Army, under the Research group, and his speciality was metallurgy. "A new metal has been found. We can create it through smelting, but, once cooled, it is as hard and durable as diamond."

He didn't know that the metal in question was mithril, nor that the vein found was one of the last in the entire world – the Elves having exploited all those which were reachable.

"What does it have to do with me?" the Professor asked.

"Our common employer found that this metal could be used in place of the iron you usually inject into your patients. They said that it would produce a better weapon."

"A weapon, yes." the Professor muttered, his eyes getting that faraway look again. "An obedient weapon. A killing machine. He'd be the best at that. The perfection..."

_**To be continued in next chapter: War and Passion...**_

Author's Notes: _I won't continue writing bad poetry. Firstly, I don't think they're useful anymore, and, secondly, my tired muse can't seem to care for it anymore. That was a subtle reminder that my family and my job are still my priorities, leaving writing for my free time._

_I haven't abandoned this story. In fact, I haven't abandoned any of my stories. I just need a longer time concentrating on each new chapter. So, please, be patient. All reviewers have my gratitude, even if it often was "when will you post your next chapter?"_

_Have you found the main crossover yet?_


	6. War and Passion

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX  
**Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings. I don't own anything related to Wolverine, X-Men, or Marvel Comics. Additional author's notes at the end._

**Chapter 6 – War and Passion  
**_posted February 10__th__, 2008_

"Do you think he'll be ready soon?" the military officer asked, his medals glinting in the brightly lit examination room.

"The Doctor said that he was capable of understanding English." the assistant replied. "And, with the... medication... he's received, he'll be compliant to your orders."

"Hmm..." A pause. "What about his identity? Any progress?"

"None. We've been calling him X for years, now."

"Weapon X, then. But a proper name would do better. He can't be another John Doe. We've had enough of them already." the man said pensively.

She shrugged. "Take your pick, then. He doesn't speak, and doesn't seem to react to all the names we've tried to address him with."

"Well... since he's the first one on record that you've succeeded in dosing with that metal, we could call him log-one." He smiled. "He slept as a log, too."

"Log-one?"

"Yes... Logan. Codename Weapon X. Or... what was his aspect when the Service found him, already?"

"An animal of some sort." she replied, frowning. "A badger, I think, or a glutton."

"A glutton? What's this."

She smiled. "It's an animal which, while being small, is so fierce that it's capable of killing preys or other predators much larger than it is. _Gulo gulo _is its scientific name, and it's also called wolverine."

"Wolverine, huh? I like the sound of it."

* * *

_**D-Day (June 6th, 1944), a beach near Arromanche, Normandy, France...**_

"Come on, boys!" the captain yelled over the sound of artillery shells hitting the ground around them. "It's the day we build ourselves a name! Let's fight for freedom. Let's kill those Nazi assholes! Go, go, go!"

The men straightened up. Despite having lost half their numbers in the landing, they had to progress toward the bunkers the Germans had built on the French seaside. Bunkers from which hot lead was raining on them. A suicide mission, if there was one. They were still hesitant, but knew that behind them was the sea, and that no one would be safe there as long as the beach was under Nazi control.

Suddenly, they saw a soldier running past them towards the German positions, with what looked like knives in his hands.

They were quite surprised, but their officer shouted "Go!" again, and they followed the lone runner. Bullets rained on their right, on their left, and on themselves too. Many fell, but the lone runner didn't stop despite having received several of these bullets.

"Who's this man?" Captain Marcel Beauvau thought as another projectile flew past them. Why would a fellow member of the Canadian Army go against a heavily fortified position with only contact weapons? He could only think that the man had fallen into a trance-like rage due to fallen comrades – he had witnessed that occurrence happen enough times in his long career. But, generally, those going in such rage were rapidly killed by enemy fire.

Not this one.

And, when he eventually reached the _blockhaus_, the kamikaze-like man raised his knives and slashed at the metal door. Under the few remaining witnesses' surprised gaze, said door gave way almost immediately. And the rain of lead they were under ceased quickly afterwards.

What they would witness in the bunker would make some of them throw their lunch up. After all, after all his brainwashing and the experiments he endured, the man was the best at what he did, even if what he did wasn't very nice.

* * *

_**Japan, a year later...**_

The second World War was in the process of being ended, but some countries didn't recognize when they were outdone. Japanese pilots were trained into kamikaze bombers, and many of them died while trying to push the American soldiers back. While the Americans privileged life, the Japanese favoured victory.

It did cost them, dearly, when the US bomber Enola Gay reached Hiroshima, later.

The reconstruction of a weakened country involved ferreting out the remaining kamikaze and other civilians not used of being vanquished so forcefully. The man known as Weapon X was often on such parties, always leading the searches with his strangely acute senses and his otherworldly endurance.

Having already lost many men in the conquest of Nazi Europe, Canada had less involvement in the fight over the Asian islands, but their Secret Service had still use for their captive-turned-secret-weapon. Weapon X was loaned to the CIA from their Canadian counterparts, although it was under another codename: Agent Ten. He was more awake, by now, and had assumed his loaned identity of James Logan. The name Agent Ten was also less revealing about his former condition of "weapon".

It was during such a party, while searching for a particularly elusive and influential samurai lord, that Logan got separated from his party. He had been exploring the building's basement, and his sense of scent led him into trapped room. The door sealed itself and machines began to remove oxygen from the room, replacing it with carbon monoxide.

Despite his claws – which the Allied soldiers had thought were knives, during the Normandy assault –, he wasn't able to open the reinforced door, neither could he slash his way through the thick walls. Even his stamina wasn't enough to allow him to stay conscious more than fifteen minutes after all the breathable air had been removed.

He fell into oblivion.

* * *

_**The next day...**_

His right arm moved, only to be blocked by metallic restraints.

A feminine voice sounded near his ear, saying things that he wasn't able to understand.

A stern male voice replied curtly, followed by shuffling sounds.

Logan opened his eyes slowly, only to close them again as he was assaulted with the light from a morning sun.

"Are you awake, now?" the male voice sounded from his right. The man's English was good, even if you could make out a slight Japanese accent.

Logan only groaned, testing his bounds again.

The man chuckled darkly. "No, you won't. You see, when many of my compatriots started dying gruesome deaths, I planted cameras in the house of the survivors. I saw you killing hundreds of men without a scratch afterwards. I noticed your unusual... weaponry. All in all, I acquired intelligence on you. I know you are strong, but I also know your weaknesses. Air, for instance – even if you just survived an otherwise deadly room. And the fact that your impressive claws go in only one direction. They won't help you right now."

Logan knew he was in a sticky situation. Truth be told, he _had _considered getting his adamantium claws out to see if he was able to hack his way out. What the man had said was sound, though: if his whole body was held by strong enough restraints, he wouldn't budge.

"Alright." he almost spat. "What do you want?"

"Me? Nothing from you, I'm afraid." the man replied. "Only that you don't try to kill me, hence the restraints. I won't free you either. Consider yourself my prisoner."

Logan shuddered, having heard tales of American prisoners before.

The man noticed, though, and chuckled darkly. "I guess you think of me as a barbarian. But I'm not. I'm Shogun Lord Shingen Yashida." he intoned, as though his title was enough to make people drop to their knees.

Logan wasn't going to, though. Firstly, he knew nothing of the Japanese nobility. And, secondly, he was bound by inch-thick steel manacles bolted into his metallic bed frame. "Explain." he merely said, hoping that his host would drop some hints.

No such luck. "You Americans see our whole country as backwards and barbarian. Our traditions are something we're proud of. I recognize that we've lost that war. I also recognize that I can't to anything against that, right now. But rest assured that I'll keep an eye out for ways to make Americans' life miserable. Be it in a year, a decade, or in a century. Yes," he nodded to himself, "I have made plans."

A pause ensued, while the two men glared at each other, none of them willing to lower their eyes. It was only interrupted when a bell sounded from afar.

"I'd say that it was a pleasure, but I'd be lying." the man said. "I'd say that I hope you are going to enjoy your stay, but that would be a lie as well. Whether you like it in here is of no consequence to me. You are an hostage, and I'll use you whenever I see fit."

A pause, while he looked around. Logan tried to glance at his prison as well, but he couldn't see much.

"The walls and doors of this room are reinforced and their state is remotely controlled." the man said factually. "The floor and the ceiling are, too. If you try something, we'll know, and we'll react by removing the oxygen from the room again. You have no mean of escape." He paused to look firmly at Logan. "If you try, I'll reconsider my decision of keeping you alive, and I'll behead you. Even with your impressive ability to live through wounds, I doubt you'd be able to once your head is separated from your shoulders. Even if you do, I'll find another way. I have a tank full of carnivorous fishes, after all."

He went to the door, and, without any other move from his part, the door slid open and he went through. Before it closed, though, the man threw him another gaze, although it was amused, now. "I don't want you to become insane. Well... no more than you are now. Enjoy the recreation."

When the door closed, a panel in the ceiling opened, and a television screen came into view, where news were displayed in Japanese.

Logan struggled against his bounds, but it was of no use. Defeated, he lied down and looked at the screen. With nothing else to do, he decided to see if Japanese was a hard language to learn by himself.

It was.

* * *

Logan spent years in imprisonment. Thanks to the filtering his captor had installed on the television set, he only saw traditionalist programs and re-enactments. He learnt of the Japanese way of life. And he learnt the language as well, aided in this by fuzzy memories in which he was speaking different kind of languages.

It would be decades before he'd realize that most of these languages were extinct.

A particular even changed his captivity. After five years spent by learning Japanese and almost nothing else, Logan's instincts were slightly dulled. That's why he didn't react immediately when, one night, his door was opened with a bang.

At the doorstep were two men clothed in black robes, with a bone-white mask covering their face.

"Nothing here." the first said in a bored tone.

"'xcept this Muggle." the second completed.

"What is he doing in here?"

"Dunno. And it's not important. The Dark Lord told us to loot the place, and nothing's here."

"But he didn't tell us not to play our favourite game, did he?"

"No. Let's Crucio him."

The two men drew their wands and cast the spell on the weary man they thought of as a lowly muggle, and it was their last mistake. Logan's brain, awash with Japanese, had had difficulties following their conversation, but the Cruciatus took care of reordering his priorities. Just as the two wizards stopped the spell, readying themselves for another one, he exploded into action.

His claws out, he lunged at the unsuspecting wizards, beheading one and impaling the second before he had even landed.

As he passed the threshold, he had a second of hesitation: was that a test from Shingen?

Not caring for an answer just yet, he proceeded forward. He met several Japanese men dead without a visible reason – except that some wore an expression of terror on their face. He also found many of the black-robed individuals. This time, he didn't wait to be cursed before using lethal means. Leaving behind him a trail of blood and gore, he eventually reached the doorway to the courtyard. The door itself was barely hanging from its hinges, and the courtyard below wasn't empty.

Several black robes were using the same torture "weapon" against someone. And two of them spotted him as soon as he passed the doorway. Logan jumped over the beams of red light and landed on those two, claws extended. In a whirlwind fashion, he maimed and killed several wizards before coming to a halt.

Only two men were alive. A few yards from him were Shingen Yashida and another man clad in robes, although this one didn't wear a bone-white mask. That allowed Logan to see the annoyed frown he wore.

As he was advancing menacingly, the man whipped his wand and spoke his favourite incantation. "_Avada Kedavra_!"

And Logan fell down, his heart not beating anymore. But his healing factor took notice and tried to restart it. It took three tries before he could stand up again. Fully healthy. And mightily pissed off. Nobody noticed that several dozen runes had activated upon the spell's contact, keeping Logan's soul in his body.

"What are you?" the man asked.

* * *

Lord Voldemort had thought that he could find allies in several parts of the world. He had successfully recruited the worst of the worst from the Russian wizards, and had proceeded towards the Japanese crime world. But Shingen Yashida held principles above the mere "let's wreak havoc for the fun of it". And he wasn't magical. Two conditions that had made the Dark Lord rescind his offer of joining forces in the most brutal fashion.

When meeting the man who would literally rise from the dead, he was so shocked that he decided to Apparate out immediately. He had noticed the man's savagery, and he didn't want to be sliced in ribbons, like his recruits had been.

Tom Riddle had been a wizard with cunning and ambition, as well as a modicum of intelligence, and he would remember the man's face. He would recognize it anywhere.

* * *

When Shingen Yashida noticed who had freed him from the curses, he groaned internally. How was he going to get out of that one?

Fate helped him at that point. Logan had spent hours fighting in the large basement he had been held in, culminating in a near-death experience. Upon seeing his prey disappear into thin air, Logan's mind returned to less adrenaline-driven instincts, and his hunger and tiredness made themselves known.

He collapsed.

For a few minutes, Shingen looked at the unconscious man appraisingly. He had been saved by this prisoned, and honour demanded that he did something for him in return. He finally reached a decision. Against a vow against using violence against him, Logan would be able to spend time outside of his prison.

* * *

Since Logan was now slightly cognizant in Japanese, he understood the contract, and he also accepted it. It was perhaps due to Stockholm Syndrome, or an association born in the blood of common enemies, but he didn't try to escape of use his claws during his trips out of his cell – which had been furnished like a real bedroom.

The two of them started to discuss. Military things, for the most part, but also esoteric conversations on beliefs and faiths. Naturally, mixing the two quickly led the conversation towards martial arts, a topic Logan found fascinating. Shingen accepted to train him, but he also decided to focus on his mind instead of simply teaching him lethal moves – Logan's body was already a killing machine, and, by teaching him respect and honour, Shingen also thought that Logan would be faithful to him. Logan spent three years learning of the will and discipline needed to perform the katas, before even trying them.

And, during these years, he also met Shingen's daughter, Mariko. And he fell for her. She was beautiful in her own right, of course, but his captivity added to this – she was the only woman around. Despite his mind not remembering about it, his body had spent millennia of "normal" relationships with women, and, by not having any of his recent means of output for his enhanced testosterone – violence –, he tried, awkwardly, to express his interest.

Her father noticed, of course, and he first tried to express his displeasure by locking him again. By then, though, Logan was too smitten to forget about her, and his renewed captivity didn't give him anything else to think about. Deciding to try another venue, Shingen restarted his hostage's courses in martial arts with a pronounced interest in self-discipline and meditation.

Logan learnt to control the "beast within" and he was soon able to fight honourably with two or more opponents without resorting to his usual means – savagery.

It was during such a session that something different happened. Logan was fighting with a katana against four adversaries, and Shingen was observing him behind a one-way mirror. Mariko was behind him, serving tea for her father and her. And the ceiling collapsed.

There had just been the sound of an explosion, and the five swordsmen had just enough time to look up to see heavy slabs of concrete falling on them. Above the damaged roof was an floating helicopter, a plume of smoke indicating that it was where the explosion-inducing missile came from. This was an unusual one, because it made much less sound than conventional ones – it benefited from military-grade advanced research, which would be available only decades later. Logan noticed a name of its tail, but didn't recognize it. S.H.I.E.L.D. wasn't the name of any country he knew.

Three of Logan's opponents were immediately crushed under heavy slabs of concrete. The walls were damaged and the windows had already exploded in several directions, adding injury to... injury. Through the broken mirror, Logan noticed Mariko and Shingen. The old man had been crushed by another bock of concrete, and she was rushing to her father's side when some more debris fell. She was struck by a mid-sized piece of rock before other pieces of the roof blocked his view of her. But this was going to be of less concern for Logan, as a much heavier beam of steel fell on him. It was only thanks to his enhanced skeleton that he wasn't crushed immediately.

As his vision started to flicker, due to the shock and lack of oxygen from his compressed lungs, Logan noticed soldiers being roped down into the room from the chopper.

And then, there was blackness.

* * *

_**New York City, June 23th, 1958...**_

In a large office filled with military references, two men were discussing. The office was in a tall building of metal and tinted glass, its windows overlooking other identical skyscrapers. One of the men was sitting behind his desk, while the other was pacing in front of it.

"I want to return there!"

"It's of no use. They are all dead."

"Listen, sergeant, I-"

"I'm not a sergeant, mister Logan. I'm Nick Fury, executive director of the S.H.I.E.L.D. and I simply can't allow you to return to the headquarters of a rogue Yakuza criminal clan. Unless you were part of said clan." Fury sat back, stroking his chin. "We first thought of you as one of them, but you are clearly not Japanese. Weren't you a prisoner of them?"

"Yes." A sigh. "At least, tell me where it was."

"I'm sorry. Despite you just getting out of the hospital – congratulations on your prompt recovery, by the way –, this information is classified."

"Very well. Goodbye, then." Logan replied, before turning on his heel and walking out.

"A moment, mister Logan." Fury called out just as he was reaching the door. "In fact you haven't noticed, the hospital downstairs, where you've been healed, is reserved for mutants, like you." Mutants weren't as much an unknown quantity to the S.H.I.E.L.D. as to the general population. "Your embassy – you're Canadian, the Immigration Service said – has been sent a notice of your arrival and of your recovery. They will need to contact you. You have an address?"

"A what?" Logan asked, half-turning. In his mind, the concept of address was quite strange.

Fury shrugged. "A place where you stay, a phone number... the usual."

Seeing that the other man wasn't reacting, he continued. "Well... get yourself a hotel room, and contact me, or them, as soon as you have." he wrote a couple numbers on a card, and stood to give it to Logan, who had reluctantly stepped back towards the desk.

"Enjoy your stay in the Big Apple."

"Thanks." A pause. "I guess."

Logan left the room, leaving a perplexed Nick Fury behind.

* * *

But Logan didn't call back, and he promptly disappeared from the scope of the S.H.I.E.L.D. detectors in New York. That's not to say that he intended it that way, rather than he fled the bustling city and its nightmarish transportation systems.

All his missions had been focused on the invasion of one place, and he had never been left alone in a city before. Much less _the _biggest city. His quickly fled, alternatively walking and running, until he found himself in woods, weeks later. Only then did he pause to consider his current state.

He was alone.

His name was Logan. Logan who? Or was Logan his last name? He didn't know, actually. Some people called him Agent Ten, others had dubbed him Weapon X, and his preferred nickname was Wolverine.

But he didn't remember who he was. Or where he lived. His mind had been profoundly affected by his enforced hibernation, as well as the drugs the Secret Services had filled him with. Using his recent training in meditation, he tried to centre himself, to follow memory trails towards his identity. But they all failed.

Sighing, he stood up, his legs wobbly from his stopover. Considering this, he knew that he had to eat in order to stay in good condition – he didn't need food to survive, but it helped greatly.

In the darkness of the woods, he found that his other senses worked quite well. He could sense the animal life around him almost as well as dogs or wolves. Speaking of which...

A couple of wolves had emerged from the tree line in front of him, and some more were arriving, circling him in the classical tactic of wolf packs. When the Alpha snarled at him, he hesitated, his feral instincts battling with his recent conditioning.

He took a step back.

And the pack attacked.

Surrounded by wolves, Logan took his best option, and extended his claws. Like a whirling dervish, he succeeded in killing one of them on his first strike, wounding three afterwards. He then remembered some nature-oriented program he had seen on the Japanese television. Even if he hadn't understood it at the time, the social order in a pack of wolves was clear: to lead one, you had to kill its leader.

He turned toward the Alpha, and snarled in the imitation of the wolf's own expression.

Understanding that a challenge had been issued, the other canines padded backwards.

The Alpha didn't wait much, though, and jumped on Logan, teeth ready to bite and tear the imprudent man's throat... only to be stopped by said man's hand, clasped firmly around its own throat.

Not even using his claws, Logan succeeded in choking the animal to death, and, after laying it on the ground, he threw his face upwards and howled.

* * *

_**Years later...**_

The man was a shadow. A powerful and lethal shadow in the woods boarding the Canadian Rockies, and also the shadow of the man he once was. But his relatively short sojourn with civilization had marked him, and he found himself needing more in his life than wilderness and his wolf pack. At some times, he needed things that only civilization was able to provide, such as medication for his wolves when the pack encountered difficulties.

And, to buy the things the civilization provided, he needed the exchange currency said civilization used: money. And he needed something else, too. The season was winter, and feet of snow were covering the unyielding ground. Food resources was at an all-time low for the pack, and Logan had decided to build himself a base. To travel from said base – a mere cabin in the woods – to the veterinarians and to the city markets, he also needed a transportation device. He bought a used truck, for which he needed some additional money.

That's why he often found himself in the lowest suburbs of Canadian towns near his cabin in the Rockies, fighting for money in underground bars and other end alleys.

His adamantium-laced skeleton helped him endure the blows from his opponents, and his enhanced healing factor took care of situations where endurance itself wasn't enough. But people started to get weary of the indomitable fighter, and some barmen were hesitant to pay him his due.

On such a dreary day, he was so fed up that he instinctively extended his claws to threaten the reluctant man behind the counter. That, more than anything, tagged him as an unnaturally-developed human, and the shocked barman used a word he had heard once, but not understood at first: "Mutant."

Logan collected his money and left, his anger making him unaware that he was being followed. It was only later, when he was driving his truck around, that his sense of smell picked the scent of the girl hidden in his truck.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" he asked the startled girl.

"Please, sir... I'm Marie... I'm a mutant, like you, and-"

"What's this about mutants?" he asked gruffly, interrupting her, before another scent made him turn his head.

"Don't you kno-"

"Shh! We're not alone."

Truth be told, they weren't. A larger man-like creature jumped from the woods surrounding the track, and a short scuffle ensued, quickly ended when the creature used a tree trunk to send Logan into the air. The shock and subsequent bump with his own truck made Logan pass out, leaving Marie to deal with the creature – who, since he didn't care for the fallen man, had appeared with only one task in mind: abducting her.

It was not to be, though, as three new opponents arrived on the scene: Storm, a mutant whose gift was to influence the local weather; Jean Grey, who could manipulate objects and thoughts at a distance; and Cyclops, whose eyes emitted a constant beam of energy – and who used special glasses to direct said energy.

Sabretooth couldn't fight against the three of them, and he fled the premises, leaving them the two other mutants.

* * *

_**Somewhat later, in a special school for "gifted" students...**_

"The results of his medical scans are strange." Jean said to her teacher and colleague, Professor Xavier – the owner and Headmaster of the school the basement of which they were in. "His body seems to have been enhanced surgically, especially his bones: they are covered in a strange metal. And he seems to be healing at unnatural speeds too: when we collected him, he had several open wounds, which were completely healed minutes later. Due to this, we can't be sure of his age." She turned to her mentor. "For all we know, _he might be older than you, Professor_."

"What about his mind?" Xavier asked, knowing that Jean was gifted in telepathy – although less than he was.

"I tried." was Jean's answer. "But it's so jumbled – probably the result of years of medical malpractice. It gives no indication of age either."

"Hmm... perhaps I can try, then."

Jean nodded and stepped back, as Xavier rolled his wheelchair until he was closer to Logan's head. In his mind, he found the same things Jean described: a jumble of memories, with none relative to the man's childhood. But he perceived something else, too: there were several memories staying there, out of Logan's reach. When he tried to grasp one of them, a strange aura surrounded the memories and pushed him outside.

"That is... peculiar." he commented, before explaining his findings to Jean.

"Can he help us?" she asked after a few minutes of reflection. "Or is he one of Magneto's?"

"There are others, you know." Xavier scolded her. "Mutants who, like regular humans, don't wish to see themselves involved."

"I know, but I also know that we need all the forces we can have, in order to win this war."

"Perhaps he can be persuaded to stay." Xavier concluded, turning his gaze to the sleeping man. "But let's not push him too far. His mind is malleable, but he is also slightly dominated by his instincts. He has been dubbed Wolverine by the ones who... transformed him. I think it's accurate."

"Wolverine? Will that be his codename among us?"

"Perhaps." Xavier answered, before leaving the room.

* * *

Logan – or Wolverine, as he was to be called – decided to stay with the X-Men. He participated in several missions, in which his talents were proved to be quite useful, as he saved the day more than once. He was also held by a promise that Professor Xavier had made him: the two of them met once a week, and the telepathic Headmaster tried to unlock the hidden memories.

In the course of their meetings, they had made little progress.

Logan now remembered a place where he had slept with – and been intimate with – a woman, on the banks of a river. The problem was that the place his memory indicated had been struck by civilization, and it was now the end of an underground road between Windsor, in Canada, and Detroit, in the United States. It hadn't been a sandy beach since 300 years ago, something which raised uncomfortable questions.

Such as: how old was he?

In the fragment of memory, there were two other items of interest. The first was a staff, which was important for a reason. The second was a cup, which was important as well, but for which he didn't have a mental image – he could now remember the staff perfectly, but he still didn't know what it was used for.

Helped by colleagues and students alike, Logan used the school's information terminals to get information about either the staff and the cup, but it didn't yield anything relevant. One of the students was most eager to help him than the others – who were still seeing him as a gruff PE teacher, with reason. Marie, also known as Rogue, had had her mutant powers catalogued, and, as Logan was the only one who could resist her touch for more than a minute, the two of them had forged a friendship of sorts – outcasts among the outcasts.

When his adventures with the X-Men culminated with the death of many of his colleagues, Logan decided to leave them. He had several ideas to search his missing memories, now, and they involved travelling around the world. Unexpectedly, or not, Marie decided to follow him.

_**To be continued in next chapter: Identity Crisis...**_

Author's Notes: _I first wanted to base this upon the written canon for Wolverine's timeline. Unfortunately, it quite extensive, and, taken in its entirety, doesn't fit well with my story. I have based the end of this chapter on the X-Men movie trilogy instead (which I haven't detailed either). Only... think of them as having occurred in the sixties._

_On that subject... congratulations to those of you who found out about the crossover. I'm sorry for those of you who don't like the inclusion of X-Men in this story. As a quick answer, I'll tell you that this crossover had been in my mind before even starting to write the story. If you must know, the starting point of this story is Jean's remark to Xavier (quoted from my memories of watching the movie): "He could be older than even yourself, Professor."_

_If you think you can make a better job at writing parts of this story, feel free to do so. I only ask to be notified – if not asked – about it, with the address of the web site you're going to publish it to._

_You've probably noticed that this chapter is (somewhat) finished relatively quickly after the previous one. I do hope that I'll be able to maintain that rhythm for later installments. Thanks for the reviews, which help me by pointing mistakes I can actually correct, or just raising my mood. Cheers!_


	7. Identity Crisis

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX  
**Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings. I don't own anything related to Wolverine, X-Men, or Marvel Comics. Or Indiana Jones (sorry, that one crept up unannounced)._

**Chapter 7 – Identity Crisis  
**_posted February 13__th__, 2008 – updated February 25__th__, 2008_

The two of them started by exploring Japan, searching for traces of the dark wizards who had attacked him during his stay with Shingen Yashida. And Mariko.

They didn't find them, of course. After all, most of those men had spoken English, some of them with a heavy Russian accent. Speaking a foreign language was a sure sign that you didn't belong to the country you were in.

But they found something. Or, rather, someone. Apparently, Mariko hadn't been killed in the collapse of the ceiling years ago. And she had taken the reins of her father's clan – or what was left of it.

Logan tried to persuade her to join him, but that failed. His heart heavy, he then asked her to let them leave peacefully. But that failed as well. The ensuing battle did cost Logan his heart, and Mariko her life.

Marie was there every step of the way, and she tried to comfort Logan the best she could. There weren't many ways to reach a man's mind when it was hidden behind sorrow and guilt, but the young woman was old enough to know of some. Since then, the two of them saved some money each day by renting only one room in the hotels they stayed at.

Since Japan didn't yield anything but pain, they moved towards Russia. Amidst the dark wizards, some did spoke Russian, while the others were clearly English – British, even, if their accent was something to take into account. They intended to travel to England should their trip through Siberia yield nothing.

But it didn't.

They were following a lead in the forest north of Vilyuysk, when Marie stopped suddenly.

"Logan?" she asked uneasily, looking at the foreboding forest they were traipsing through.

"Yes?" he asked distractedly, his sense of smell having picked an interesting scent.

"I don't think this forest contains anything interesting. Let's go."

"But..." he trailed off, before turning all of his attention on her. "Wait a tick. What's your problem? You don't usually cower before danger. What is it?"

"Nothing." she replied, still casting furtive glances towards the darkened canopy. "I just don't think it's a good idea to go there."

"Again: why? We're both more dangerous than anything a mere forest can throw at us."

"Perhaps..." she licked her lips. "Perhaps this is more than a "mere forest", Logan." she looked up, her expression pleading. "I'm sorry. These woods creep me out."

"You have nothing to fear, Marie." he said, taking her into his strong arms. "And I'll be with you all the time."

"Promise?" she asked, absently cursing herself about the little-girl tone of voice she had just used.

"Promise."

That said, he took her gloved hand and dragged her forward. After a dozen yards, she was still afraid, but Logan was there with her. After a mile, her fear had escalated to a new level. After two, she couldn't take it anymore. "There's nothing here, Logan. Let's turn back, now."

"I can't. We're near, I can feel it."

"Feel what? There are only trees here."

"You just said so: there are only trees. So, please, calm yourself."

As he was saying these words, a low rumbling sound came from the forest in front of them, a sound that evolved into a growl. At the same time, trees moved, only to make way for a huge reptilian head. The head was easily larger than Logan's cabin in the Rocky Mountains. And the body that followed...

Marie was white as a sheet. "It's... it's..."

"Tyrannosaurus Rex." Logan said, looking the beast in the eyes while evaluating the best way to overcome it. Without thinking about it, his claws extended and he took a defensive stance.

"Yes!" she exclaimed. "A bloody dinosaur! And you said-"

The following words were drowned out when the beast roared. And the ground shook as it charged. Marie was ready to bolt – or even pass out from fright – but Logan held his ground. He smiled, even, and retracted his claws, shocking her.

"What are you doing?" she screeched.

Still holding her hand, he extended his other arm forward, as if to hug a long-lost friend. The huge beast was now ten steps from them. Five steps. Three. Two. One. Zero.

Marie closed her eyes, certain that Death had struck. But nothing came. Only a low chuckle. "The scent was off." Logan commented.

"What?"

"Look." he said, gesturing at the trees in front of them. Truth be told, where there should have been broken trunks and large footprints, the trees were undisturbed. "A joke. A practical joke. To make us turn around and leave. An illusion."

"But why? And who could have created that... that... beast? It seemed real to me." A pause. "And why did you say that its scent was off? Have you smelled one before?"

"I don't think so." he replied, frowning. "But you know how my mind is. For all I know, I could have."

She dismissed his last comment with a swipe of her hand. "That doesn't answer our question, though. What does need protection so badly to create illusions of long-dead reptiles?"

"We won't know unless we press forward." he said, and she nodded in response. Together, they walked some more into the wood.

A mile further in, Logan stopped so brusquely that Marie walked clear into his back. Unfortunately, he had stopped just because he had sensed a barrier of some kind, and she pushed him forward. It wasn't much, but the barrier had been less than an inch from his nose, and the two of them tumbled through it. The forest seemed to become alive instantaneously, vines raising around them to hold them.

Using his claws, Logan succeeded in severing several of them quickly, but there were too many, and the two of them found themselves tightly bound.

"And now?" she asked.

"Now we wait." he replied calmly.

"Wait for what?"

"For whom, actually. They're near."

A pause.

Another voice raised from behind – and a little above – them. It was a male's voice, but it was so soft that they had trouble distinguishing it from the forest's natural sounds. "Indeed." it said elegantly. "We are near."

"The question is, what are we going to do with you?" another said. This time, it was a woman's voice, clear and flowing like a mountain river.

The two last speakers moved around, their steps not disturbing the forest in any shape or sound. When they arrived in front of Logan and Marie, the two of them were promptly shocked. Marie blushed when she noticed the unnatural beauty and grace the two newcomers held themselves with – as well as their state of dress. Truth be told, the two newcomers seemed clad with nothing else than leaves and silver ornaments. Logan eyed them critically, trying to evaluate their threat level. When he noticed their ears, though, he froze.

They had pointy ears.

The woman turned to her companion and uttered a sentence in a foreign language. A language Logan had some difficulty to grasp, but which seemed to be natural for him. Almost like... a mother's tongue, forgotten after years not using it. Or centuries.

"Do you think they're Veel?" was the question.

"I don't think so." was the answer. "Normally, only the Veels' elven blood make them able to enter our woods. But let's be sure before bestowing judgement."

The woman nodded, and she knelt in front of Marie, looking for some distinguishing feature. The man did the same in front of Logan. A second later, a curse escaped his lips.

"What?" the woman asked. "What is it, Eleigh?"

"It's not possible, Ailee. It's just not possible."

"What?" she asked, before turning to Logan, trying to see what had caught her companion's interest. Nothing in the eyes, nothing in the ears, nothing in the bone structure, but... "By the moon! He's got the Mark!"

And, indeed, on Logan's forehead, peeking from under a lock of his unruly hair, was a mark. A lightning bolt-shaped scar.

The Elves had found their forefather.

* * *

Logan and Marie were promptly escorted to the Elvish village, and the council of Ancients was immediately summoned. However, while the ancients were quick to establish who he was by using some fanciful gestures and words, Logan didn't recognize them.

"I was searching for a couple artifacts." he told Eleigh, while the council continued debating. "My memories are quite disturbed, but I know that I owned a staff at some point. And that I was searching for a cup."

"That's not very precise, Har." the Elf answered. "There are many staves around the world. Almost as many as there are cups."

"I don't know much apart what I already said. And why are you calling me Har all the time?"

"Because that's your name."

"Har? But..." Logan trailed off. He had intended to say that Logan was his name, but he wasn't so sure, now. He remembered his conversations with Professor Xavier, and the fact that "Logan" had seemed a borrowed name. "So... my name is Har." he muttered. Perhaps they held another answer to his life. Perhaps... "How old am I?"

Eleigh didn't seem too sure of himself, suddenly. "I don't know, Har. Lareth might know, though."

"Who's Lareth?" Marie asked. She had stayed there the whole time, but had been too stunned to say anything until now.

"He's the leader of our civilization. He's currently living with the Amazonyel tribe." the Elf answered, making Logan wince at the last word. "What is it?"

"Just a slight headache. Why would Lareth know my name?"

"He's the oldest Elf living. He might have known you from... before you lost your memories." A pause. "He has been called by the council, and he should be here shortly."

"From the Amazon forest? From Brazil?" Marie asked, dumbfounded that one could make the trip so quickly. "Which kind of plane do you use?"

"Plane? What's that? We only use our fountains for instant transportation." Eleigh answered, shocking her into silence.

Logan – or Har, now – frowned. "How old is Lareth?"

"He's ten times as old as I am." Eleigh answered.

"So," Marie spoke again, "since you seem to be in your early thirties, he's what... 300 years old? Is that even possible?"

The Elf stood up, slightly affronted. "For your information, thirty isn't my age. I'm more than three times that. I've reached my first century three years ago, in fact."

"But..." Marie spluttered. "He'd be... He'd be..."

"Lareth reached his twelfth century seven years ago. And Har here is known to be much older than him." Eleigh said before exiting the room.

Marie looked at him with wide eyes, before turning to Logan. And she fainted.

* * *

"Welcome back, Har." the gnarled old man said, eliciting a bow from the addressed man. He chuckled. "No need to bow to me. I should be the one doing that, but my back isn't as responding at it once was."

"Eleigh told us you might know my age." Logan said without preamble.

"He said so? Well... under other circumstances, he might be right. But not in this case."

"What do you mean?" Marie asked.

"I mean that I do not know of Har's age. I'm quite surprised to see you in such a young countenance, Har. In the last millennium, your existence had become a myth even among us. But I'm sure of two things: you _are _Har, and you are older than I am. I spoke to you a couple years before your disappearance, in fact, about that very thing."

"Which thing?" Logan asked.

"Your age. I was a young scribe at the time, and I had intended to write the story of your life."

"Have you written the book already?" Marie enquired.

The old man chuckled as he turned to answer her. "The book? More like a whole library!" He turned back to Logan. "I'm sorry, but it disappeared in a volcano eruption, twenty years ago. I have started working with the young scholars on writing a new one, but my memories aren't fresh about the events, although I do remember many things you told me." A pause. "You told me about the Great Cold that had encompassed the world, leaving only ice and snow to cover the earth. You told me you lived through it, teaching the tribes how to live under the harsh conditions. You told me you met with my ancestors, only to recognize them as the descendants of your own contemporaries. You told me about the fact that you left those contemporaries to explore the world, and about the civilizations you have helped. About Atlantis, for instance."

"Atlantis? Civilizations? The Great Cold?" Marie asked to no one in particular, as her mind was churning with the data. "But... Atlantis is only a myth! And... the glaciation..." she trailed off, turning to look at Logan, who was digesting the information as well. "It was more than twelve millennia ago!"

"So sayeth the wise." Lareth answered laconically, looking at Logan as well.

Until before their meetings with the Elves, Marie thought that she was dating a man slightly older. After Eleigh's first revelation, she had thought that he was older than her by a millennium. Learning that it was perhaps more than ten millennia instead was too much.

She fainted again.

* * *

Logan and Marie spent two weeks with the Elves, but the incessant stares were wearing the young woman down. They were polite, they were graceful, they were civilized despite their aborigenous appearance... but they still stared at them strangely.

"When do we leave?" she asked him once.

"Tomorrow." he answered immediately, shocking her.

She blinked, before registering what he was doing. He was packing! "Why didn't you tell me before?"

"Lareth and the council have finished tracking the whereabouts of my staff. The cup seems to be protected from their means of detection. They think..."

"What?"

"They think that holding them might reinstate my memories. Will you... will you stay with me if I suddenly change my name?"

She paused. The revelations about his age had been hard to bear, but she was a resilient woman, and, now that she was slightly more prepared, she could stomach more of them. She nodded decisively.

"Thank you, Marie."

* * *

The next day saw them following the council members as they strolled leisurely through the forest, until they came across a clear pond. Lareth concentrated on the pond and started to hum.

"What is he doing?" Marie asked Logan in a whisper.

"I dunno. We'll see." he replied in the same tone.

As the old Elf's wordless chant reached a certain volume, he started to wave his hands over the smooth surface. Ripples started to appear, making the trees' reflection waver. It quieted as soon as Lareth stopped moving.

"The passage is open." he finally said. "Just get in the water."

Marie was tempted to ask about it, but Logan had already started walking. Since he was still holding her hand, she followed him into the water. When they were both in the middle, the water was reaching their upper torso. "Ready?" he asked.

"As much as I can be." she answered, shrugging.

And they dunked their head under the surface. A brief feeling of weightlessness ensued, and they quickly stood up to inspect their surroundings. Truth be told, the trees were still there, at the exact same place, even, but the Elves had disappeared.

"Where have they gone?" Marie enquired as they slowly made their way out of the pond.

"The question is: where have _we _gone?" he replied absently, his nose in the air. "The atmosphere here is different. We have moved. Look." he finished, pointing at the water surface.

Under their eyes were the reflection of the same trees, but with several Elves between them. And they were waving at them. "Bye, Lareth." he muttered, waving back. The water rippled once more, and the surface was soon flat again, only showing the reflection of the forest around them.

"We're dry." she suddenly said, surprised at the fact.

He chuckled. "Put that on the Elves' magic."

"There's no such thing as magic." she protested.

"Really? The T-Rex and the pond tend to disagree." he replied amusedly.

She put her hand to her hips. "And since when are you so... accepting, Logan? I never thought you could accept all the things that they bandied about you without batting an eye."

"I was thinking..."

"God help us." she inserted with a mischievous smile.

He smiled as well, before turning serious again. "I don't know much about my past. What kind of man was I? From what he said, I was some sort of wandering prophet. Even if everything could have been fabricated, it's still a primary lead and I want to know more."

After a dozen seconds, she nodded. "Okay. Let's find this staff, then."

Logan nodded, and took something from his pocket. As he was looking at it intently, Marie found herself curious. "What is this?"

"A magical compass Lareth gave us. It indicates the mouth of a cave in which we should start investigating."

"A cave? How interesting. Is it filled with dangerous monsters?"

Logan's only response was a nod, before he started walking towards the west. She hurried behind him, and, after a few hours of trekking through the forest, the two of them found themselves at the mouth of a large cave. They looked at each other, shrugged, and took their flashlights from their equipment before heading inside.

The cave appeared to belong to a large network of interconnected subterranean rooms. The first three were empty, but the fourth was full of bones and skeletons of assorted animals. Of large animals. They could swear that one or two of them were bears or larger animals.

"Well... this is a large thing we're a-hunting, good sir." Marie said, trying to alleviate the atmosphere. When he didn't answer, she turned her head to look at him in askance... only to find something looking at her from the reflection a puddle of water was giving. It was a snake. A _very _large snake.

She turned to stone. Literally. The basilisk's gaze was lethal when it was unhindered, but "only" turned onlookers to stone if it was reflected.

Logan wasn't feeling the gaze, though. Surprised, the basilisk lost a few seconds trying to understand why his favourite weapon wasn't working. In that short time, Logan had extended his claws and jumped at the snake's throat, arms forward.

While a single steel sword wasn't often enough to slash through the beast's skin, six adamantium pointy blades were largely sufficient to pierce it. Mortally wounded, the snake shook and trashed around, his massive body striking Logan and Marie's statue as much as the pile of bones or the rocky cavern's walls.

While Logan was crushed against the ceiling, falling unconscious from the shock, Marie's statue was broken into bits that were quickly mixed with rocks and other rubble from the dying beast's shocks with the walls.

* * *

Logan's healing factor was a boon as much as a curse. Over the course of his long life, it had often brought him back from the dead. But it was often with broken bones that were painful for a few days. His adamantium-laced skeleton helped in that regard, but it was still painful to awaken under slabs of rocks and a stinking basilisk carcass.

Once awake, he looked around, trying to locate Marie. Where she had stood, only rubble remained. Some had a shape, while others had been roughly taken from the cave's walls and ceiling. As he noticed her broken head near the far wall, sorrow struck him again, and he knelt to cry for his fallen friend and lover.

He spent a whole day collecting most of the parts from Marie's frozen shape – he couldn't get them all: some were unrecognizable from the surrounding debris – and burying them near the cave's entrance. This done, and after a last goodbye, he collected his wits and proceeded inwards again.

The labyrinthine network of caves had several exits outwards, and only one inwards. After exploring all those leading out unsuccessfully, Logan decided to proceed further inside. It was a long corridor, large enough for the snake he had killed before, and he was extra careful while walking in. But no other basilisk came forward, and he finally reached a dead end. A dead end with three doors.

One was a large slab of stone, circular and without any handle or hinge. Pushing it didn't give anything, and he left it as it was, unaware of the room – and castle – beyond. The two others were human-sized doors. Since pushing or pulling them didn't work, he slashed through them with his claws. The reinforced wood was old, and it yielded rapidly. Behind the first door was a laboratory with cauldrons and many flasks holding strange substances. Behind the second were living quarters for one : a dining table, a kitchen, a library, and a bedroom.

And, atop the mantle of the bedroom's chimney was a staff.

He froze.

It was _his _staff! He recognized the shape, and he also felt as though the gnarled thing was calling for him!

Not thinking clearly, he reached out with his hand. Almost like a joyful puppy, the staff jumped from its resting place into his hand.

And he collapsed.

* * *

Flashes of light.

Moments of life.

During his forced hibernation, his mind had protected his memories from the destruction incurred by the prolonged lack of oxygen, storing them behind a stasis-like barrier. Now reunited with his staff, which still held a part of his power, the barrier had collapsed.

Logan. Har.

Har-Kan. Har-Ree. Harry.

Har-Old of Myridine.

Myrddin. Merlin.

He had fallen unconscious under the last name, once, and had awoken under the first.

Now, after collapsing under the first, he arose with his entire memories under his control.

He was all those names. And more. He was a wizard. Not a specialized one, but a mightily powerful jack-of-all-trades. Now equipped with a metallic skeleton. It annoyed him, that humans had dared open him like a fish to play with his bones, but it had also proven helpful in many cases. However, the job had been badly done: his bones were "only" coated with adamantium.

Aided with his memories of smelting mithril, he focused his power on the metal around his bones, and, several heart beats later, the metal was included in his genetic makeup as well, allowing him to apply an ability that he hadn't used in more than a millennium: self-transfiguration.

A burly mutant had entered the room. A white-haired wizard exited it, admiring his staff and his handiwork.

Once in the corridor, he looked at the long corridor and thought about Marie again. Could he resurrect her? He knew that resurrection itself was impossible, but... was she actually dead? He frowned. Despite knowing much about magic in general, he didn't know if the effect the Basilisk had had on her was curable or not. In "his" time, a person turned to stone by one was considered dead. He'd have to ask some wizards about an eventual cure.

He turned around. Now that he was in touch with the magic around him, he distinctively felt the protecting ward on the round "doorway". Curious about it, he aimed the staff at it and willed it open. The magic resisted for a second, but the door – and the whole Chamber – had been built using the staff, and the magic recognized it. The stone itself resisted more than that: centuries of disuse in a dank atmosphere certainly allowed for some difficulties in opening doors.

Once in the larger Chamber, Harry turned around, and discovered with a shock the ominous face that was looking at him. Using the staff's own memories to find about its history, he had the surprise of recognizing the man in the picture.

It was Salazar Slytherin.

His own son.

He was quite sad at having had a child gone down the path of Darkness, but, truth be told, he had had enough descendants to mourn that one's choices for long.

The Chamber's only other exit was a corridor lined with snake statues – confirming Salazar's obsession with serpents – which was ended by another door. Using the staff again, Harry exited the room, and he eventually found his way to the surface...

...only to find himself face to face with a ghost. In a toilet. A girls' toilet.

Moaning Myrtle shrieked in surprise, before hurrying to her favourite hiding place: the U-tube of the third cubicle.

Harry exited the toilets, shaking his head with a smile at the ghost's surprising antics. He found himself in a corridor overlooking a maze of stairs. Stone everywhere, and portraits which were looking at him strangely.

'Must be a castle of some sort.' he thought, and his staff answered by telling him of the castle's history as it knew it: Nimue building it, and Rowena and Salazar fighting for it as it was turned into a school. 'It's surely a school right now.' Harry concluded, aided in this decision by the noise.

Three hundred children, ranging from ages 11 to 18, were eating in the same room. That kind of meeting was always noisy, which made the Great Hall easy to find.

When he arrived in front of the opened doors, nobody had seen him.

When he crossed the doorway, several students and staff members noticed him.

When he had reached the middle of the room, almost everyone had seen him. Several persons had drawn their wand, the ongoing struggle with Voldemort being on everyone's mind as the unknown wizard had entered the room with his grey hood up.

When he found himself in front of the staff table, Harry lowered his hood.

"Great Merlin!" swore Horace Slughorn.

Harry turned to him. "Yes?" he asked politely.

The Potion Master turned to Dumbledore, his mouth moving without producing any sound. Harry turned as well, and noticed something particular about the old man in front of him. The man was quite old, but he was also alert and... what was that twinkle in his eyes? He said the first thing that came to his mind.

"You're a Veel."

That sentence shocked several listeners, but not because they knew what a Veel was. They thought that Harry had said something derogatory.

Dumbledore looked at his visitor for a few seconds before speaking. "Usually, visitors announce themselves to the staff members of this venerable institution, so that they can be properly welcomed in my office." he stood up, and motioned to the door located to the side of the staff table. "We can head there, if you want, mister...?"

Harry thought about it. "Merlin" was probably over the top, since his name was now use as an swearword. "Call me Harold, mister...?" he mimicked.

"Albus Dumbledore." the Headmaster said, his eyes shiny with mirth. "I'm the Headmaster here."

"Lead the way, then, mister Headmaster."

* * *

The two of them arrived in the office, closely followed by the Heads of House.

"Lemon sherbet, mister Harold?" Dumbledore asked.

"What are they?" Harry enquired.

"Ah, they are but the strangest thing the Muggles have made yet. Sweet but sour at the same time. A perfect image of life, if I may say so."

"You may." Harry replied, before taking one in his mouth. "Hmm, yes. Sour and sweet. Must be good with some tea."

"My mistake. Hanky!" Dumbledore called for his favourite house-elf.

With a crack, the creature appeared next to his master, making Harry jump a foot in the air. "What was that?" he asked. "What _is _that?"

"This is Hanky, a house-elf."

"A house-_what?_" Harry asked, dumbfounded, while the four Heads looked at each other. What was this man doing here, not knowing about Dumbledore and his sweets, and jumping when a lowly house-elf appeared?

"A house-elf. Their kind is rumoured to descend from the elves of legend. They are wonderful servants."

"The elves of legend?" Harry asked, before closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. 'Let's not act rashly, now.' he thought. 'There must be some lie under this story, especially after a thousand years of human evolution. I'll get that story later. Now that I've found the descendants of my magic students, I'm in no hurry.'

"I'm sorry." he said aloud. "I'm not from around here."

"We did notice." Dumbledore said, before motioning for him to sit. The four Heads took a seat as well, and Hanky served tea for everyone. "What brings you to our school? And what made it so I wasn't warned when you crossed the gates?"

"Huh... which gates?" Harry asked.

If he had wanted it that way, he couldn't have chosen a perfect moment. Three among the four Heads spat their tea through their nose.

"I'm sorry. Perhaps you Apparated right next to the Great Hall?" Dumbledore asked, knowing full well that it wasn't possible thanks to Hogwarts' wards.

"As I told you, I'm not from here." Harry insisted. "I don't know what you meant by... Apparated. I reached the school through a subterranean corridor."

"Ah. A secret passage, then." Dumbledore said amusedly. "You're perhaps not from here, but you must know someone who told you about this place and its passages, don't you?"

"Err... no. I found the passage by... accident, after battling a great snake. It led to a sort of Chamber, where a statue of my... er... I mean, a statue of Salazar Slytherin was etched into the rock."

"Albus!" McGonagall whispered furiously. "Isn't it the Chamber of Secrets?"

The Headmaster hummed pensively for a few seconds. "Can you show us to that chamber?"

"Of course."

And Harry led them to the toilets he had exited from, and down the drain to the room with the statue.

"Great Merlin!" Slughorn swore again, eliciting a sigh from Harry.

"Sorry, Harold, but you must be aware that your resemblance with this statue is... striking." Dumbledore said, before pausing. "As Head of House, Horace must have access to some Slytherin pictures we're not aware of, and he must have identified you immediately thanks to these pictures, I think. You said "my", earlier. Was it "my _ancestor_"? It's not a shame to have such an illustrious ancestor, you know. I have a Gryffindor ascendant myself."

"Uh..." was all Harry could manage. These people thought he descended from his own son? It was hilarious! But it was also deliciously misleading, pushing questions such as his age away... for now.

And he really needed to get some in-depth documentation on the last millennium.

The Ravenclaw Head spoke up suddenly, and Harry turned to him. "Excuse me?"

"I asked about your earlier words. You called the Headmaster "Aveel" or something like that."

"Oh." A pause. "Like your colleague here, I mistook him for someone else." Harry shrugged. It was as good an explanation as any other, and he didn't want to reveal his links with the Elves to people who appeared to have enslaved members of his earliest descendants. A careful look around showed that only Slughorn and Sprout bought it as face value. The others turned to Dumbledore, who merely shrugged in the same way. After this, Harry knew, he'd probably have a private meeting with the Headmaster concerning his careless slip-up, but the others wouldn't be invited.

"How have you been able to open all these passageways?" McGonagall asked, peeking through the statue's open mouth.

"With my staff." Harry replied simply, holding the object up.

"An interesting item." Dumbledore commented. "In most places I know, wizards cast spell with a wand."

"Ollivander." Harry said almost immediately.

"Yes!" Dumbledore said brightly. "It appears that you know about the British World of Magic, after all."

"It's just a name I heard in passing." Harry said, looking at his feet. How many slip-ups could he manage in one day? He had referred to Oliver Ollivander, one of his students, a millennium ago. It seemed that his descendants had taken the family trade, after all.

"Could you demonstrate?" Dumbledore asked, looking at the door.

Understanding that the Headmaster was speaking about the opened doorway, Harry pointed the staff at the statue's mouth and willed it shut. The stone groaned again before setting. "Now. Perfectly sealed."

"That's good to know." Dumbledore said. "With that war going on, I don't want my school invaded. Now..." he turned around and faced Harry, his wand drawn. "The game has lasted long enough. Are you friend or foe?"

Harry was quite surprised. Gone was the genial Albus Dumbledore. In his place was a formidable warlock, who had already won a war against Dark powers, and was now leading another. "I'm Harold of Myridine. What I told you is the truth."

The word "truth" seemed to light a fire behind Slughorn's eyes, and the man rushed to Dumbledore to whisper some words in the older man's ear.

"Do you agree to submit to Veritaserum?" Dumbledore asked Harry.

"What is it?"

"It's a serum that only allows you to speak the truth."

A pause. "Only if you give me a written list of the questions you are going to ask." Harry countered warily. Nobody liked to see their secrets spread around. Harry least of all. "And an oath that you aren't going to ask more."

Dumbledore smiled grimly, before nodding. A few wand moves later, he had produced such a list and the required oath. Harry glanced at him appraisingly before reading the list. He then nodded to the old Headmaster.

"What's your name?" Dumbledore asked after delivering the three customary drops.

"Harold of Myridine." It was the truth. But not the complete truth. Dumbledore hadn't asked for his full name or his current name or any variation thereof. He was thus free to give any of his official names – and he had had a few of those.

"Are you a dark wizard?"

"No."

"Are you a descendant of Salazar Slytherin?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"What do you know about Voldemort?"

"I fought some of his forces in Japan, years ago. Bad guys all around. Prefer to torture and to kill before asking questions. Flee when outsmarted."

That answer made the others pause and smile tentatively. Was that wizard a new ally?

Knowing that the Veritaserum had a limited time effect, Dumbledore pressed on. "What's your job or qualification?"

"I'm unemployed at the moment. If you're asking about what I have done before or what I could do, the answer is varied, but my previous occupation was... teaching." Which was true even in Logan's case, as he had been teaching the young mutants how to fight.

"How old are you?"

"I don't know." Compared to most of his previous answers, this one was a naked truth.

Bound by his oath, Dumbledore refrained from asking "What do you mean?"

Only when the serum wore off was he able to formulate his question.

"I don't know when I was born." Harry replied. "Therefore, I can't know my exact age."

Given that he was a wizard, Harry's apparent age was interpreted by Dumbledore as roughly around the century.

Flitwick wasn't the Charms local expert for nothing, though. "I recently devised a spell that can display a person's age in an interesting fashion." he piped in, before whipping his wand out. "_Ostentatio Aetas!_"

Fancy numbers appeared above Harry's head, and started turning – much like a car's counter. The problem was that Harry's counter didn't seem to be limited.

As the numbers continued to roll around, Harry turned towards the diminutive teacher. "You could have asked before casting a spell on me." he said sternly.

"I'm sorry." Flitwick apologized. "It hasn't been perfected yet. Visibly. I need more of a left flick, I think... yes..."

As Harry watched, the small man left them, his head in the Arithmancy formulas needed for spell creation.

"Filius is our Charms expert." Dumbledore said. "Well... what I mean is..."

Harry raised his staff until its head hit the rolling numbers – which had reached the thousands, by now. The numbers flickered out. "I do know it is difficult to create new spells from nothing. I appreciate the professional effort, but not the lack of politeness."

"I'm sure he meant well."

"Horrible things have been made by people meaning well." Harry said, his expression haunted by his own ghosts. After a second, he shook himself, only to see McGonagall looking at him shrewdly. Well... not exactly him. His arm.

"What?"

"I noticed your arm when you raised you staff, a tad earlier." she said. "Are these... runes?"

A pause. Harry looked at his arms. Of course, there were runes on them. Runes that had been there, and on several places on his body. Runes that had saved his soul at least twice in his long life. Runes that had pushed the Elves into researching how to repeat them, creating a lore about Runes in general. A lore that had been copied by wizards – but he didn't know that yet. "Er... yes?" he said tentatively.

Dumbledore's eyes lit up. "Would you be willing to teach Ancient Runes to our students? Our current teacher is retiring after this year, and it would really help us."

"Ancient Runes? Do you have Modern Runes as well?"

"Er... no. It's called Ancient Runes because nobody knows where they came from."

At this, Harry snorted, before coughing in his hand to disguise his near slip-up. Nobody, eh?

"All right." he finally said. "I'll do it."

"Great!" Dumbledore exclaimed. "Now let's head back to my office, where we'll discuss your wages."

* * *

When Harry read the previous professor's teaching notes, he snorted again – although he was safely alone in a hotel room above Diagon Alley. With a pack of History books next to his bed. And a "wand" too: since he had to appear normal to the wizarding population, he had temporarily transfigured his staff into one of those puny-looking bits of wood.

The program for Ancient Runes was lower in density than what he knew in the subject. And what he knew was enough to earn him the title of Rune Master, if he even deigned to pass the tests the Ministry of Magic had devised. He had initially thought that he'd be forced to return to the Elves in order to get instruction to become a Rune Lord, but it wasn't necessary.

That was how, the following years, he found himself teaching the Ancient Runes elective course to students from third to seventh year. He met students like Lucius Malfoy and Rodolphus Lestrange. Like Evan Rosier and Bellatrix Black. And like Remus Lupin, James Potter, and Lily Evans. And he distinctively felt something particular about these three last students.

He knew Remus Lupin was a werewolf the moment he walked past him in the school. And that reminded him that he had a quest that had been put on hold in his hurry to insert himself in human affairs again: to put an end to the abominations that were lycanthropy and vampirism. He soon decided to spend all his free time on this, spending his summer months hunting vampires and re-learning how to heal werewolves. Remus Lupin was transformed into a Lycan – a werewolf Animagus – a mere month into his third year. However, Harry didn't want people to know about that particular ability as of yet, and he made the young student vow to keep the charade during his whole stay in school.

James Potter and Lily Evans, on the other hand, were strangely familiar to him. He tried to find out why, but nothing came to his memory about a reason behind this. He resolved to keep an eye on them, and to help them to the best of his abilities. He taught Lily everything he knew about Runes – even using the runes he had on himself, after copying them down, as a practical example of protection scheme. He taught James several things about Defence that weren't learnt in school – going as far as explaining the Animagus self-transfiguration and the advantages thereof.

It was only in their seventh and last year in school that it became apparent that the two of them would finish married.

One day, Harry had a revelation about the reason behind his fascination with them.

It had been a regular school day, and their class had just left his classroom towards their Potion classroom. A few minutes later, Harry noticed several sheets of parchment lying on the floor. He magically summoned them and ordered them, only to find that it was a Potion essay from one Lily Evans. And, given the chatter that had gone on when the student had left, it was due today.

Since he didn't have any class right now, he decided to head there.

Slughorn was discussing about some Potions which effects weren't obtained by drinking them, but by inhaling them. Harry excused himself, explained the reason for his presence, and gave the essay back to Lily. He had the surprise of seeing Slughorn looking at him shrewdly when he turned back.

"Do you want to stay for the practical test?" the rotund man asked. "You might even assist me in testing the final product."

Not having anything better to do, Harry complied. After all, he was genuinely curious about the effect the Potion could have on him. It was a Reminiscence Potion focused on early memories, and his early memories, being as far as they were, could be interesting.

After seeing Slughorn sniffing a couple Potions and nodding, he tentatively took a vial and inhaled the grey fumes.

And he fainted.

* * *

He awoke two weeks later, in one of the the Hospital Wing's beds. With an intense headache. The Potion had been tweaked to recall several memories from the recipient's first years of life, but the ingredients used implied that this duration was a percentile of the recipient's whole life. And, given his extended lifespan, he had just relived his first millennium.

The interesting part, however, was the first year of this millennium, as he had distinctively recognized a modern house and his parents.

James and Lily Potter.

Wanting to find the two of them, he stood up quickly, only to fall back on the bed as his headache returned with a vengeance.

"Up so soon?" a gentle voice came from his right. It was the hospital matron. "You might need something for this aching of your head."

She gave him the requisite potion and explained how he had come to her Wing. Apparently, Slughorn had been disturbed that he had fallen unconscious, especially as the Potion was 100 percent effective – the Potion Master had tested it himself.

The period for the final exams had come and gone, his absence not really disturbing his students as they were already more than prepared for the Ancient Runes one. Right now, the woman informed him, the students were boarding the Hogwarts Express towards London.

That information jolted him out of bed, and he rushed through Hogwarts towards the station. It was too late, though, as the Express was already leaving the platform.

Through one of the windows, though, he noticed something that made him smile. Lily and James Potter were alone in a compartment, and they were kissing.

He slowed down and watched as the train accelerated southwards.

Another couple conclusions came to him. Since those two were his parents, he had to have been sent to the past. Magically, perhaps. Unfortunately, there were close to nothing known about time travel, especially with such a long "distance." He also knew something else: his last name. His official one, that is. Potter. The only thing missing was his date of birth...

Some of his plans for the summer couldn't be postponed, as he had provoked a meeting of vampire clans he had every intention of crashing into, in order to bring a hefty blow in the Vampire population. That operation was a mitigated success, as he got wounded in the process of beheading the seven elder vampires who had attended.

After healing his wounds, he also had another task: to retrieve the Cup. The one he had dubbed Holy Grail and that had been retrieved by one of his Paladins. He remembered hiding it, but the castle where it had been stored was a ruin. He followed several trails, some of them involving disbanded orders of chivalry like the Templars. That particular one did bear fruit, actually, as he found himself in a hidden shrine in Egypt.

As he arrived, the building was on the verge of collapsing, and an American archaeologist and his father exited it. Noticing the cup on the verge of falling into a crevice into Earth, he Summoned to his hand... only to find it empty.

Unbeknownst to him, the Holy Grail had been found by Arimathea's "sons" and drained by them in the process of enhancing their power and creating some powerful underlings as well – usually, for a vampire to gain a certain level, centuries of experience were needed ; the blood from the cup gave a potential vampire a jumping start of five hundred years.

Some of these vampires had fallen to the Knights Templar, enhancing the vampire's primal fear of the symbols of Christianity. Others had fallen in clan wars or against werewolves or wizards. Some clans, a bit too adventurous, had been completely wiped out by the Elves. But many vampires remained.

In his travels, Harry had renewed his friendship with the Elven tribes, and each of them had given him a room for when he stopped by. He hid the cup in one of these before returning to Hogwarts for the upcoming school year. He hadn't had time to visit his soon-to-be parents, but he thought he'd have time the next summer.

That was without taking into account his date of conception.

The evening of Halloween, while students participated in the usual pumpkin-decorated feast, Harry felt a great cold take hold of him, as if half of his power was being siphoned off. It alarmed him, and he spent a month trying to discern where all that energy had gone to. It was only an offhand remark from Dumbledore, after a teachers' meeting, that appeased him. Apparently, the Potters – who had been married just before Halloween – were expecting a happy event.

Harry tried to visit them, but Fate seemed to prevent his every try to reach them. Only when he thought seriously about it did he reach the conclusion that he couldn't act on the timeline any more – at least not until his "younger self" was sent to the past. Any change right now could be disastrous: if he wasn't sent to the past, everything he had participated in would collapse. And he had participated in _many_ things.

It was mind-boggling.

Knowing that his margin of error would only reduce with each day passed, he told Dumbledore that he wouldn't continue teaching after the school year, and made himself a portkey to his room in the nearest Elven forest, where he would spend in stasis the time until young Harry's trip into the past.

He couldn't do anything else. Each time he tried to speak to someone about this, his mind locked up and he found himself voiceless. He knew that the Runes he had taught Lily were sufficient to help them, but he didn't know if she would be able to use them to their fullest extent.

After the Hogwarts Express left towards London, the following summer, he walked past Dumbledore as the Headmaster was leaving for an appointment with a prospective Divination teacher. Once in the Elven settlement, located deep in the Forbidden Forest, he prepared himself for a possibly long stasis. His only condition for interrupting the ritual was if young Harry Potter disappeared.

As he was falling into unconsciousness, his last thought was about the condition: was it restrictive enough to wake him only for the important event, while being precise enough to effectively wake him up at that precise moment?

Only time would tell.

_**To be continued in next chapter: Coming Clean...**_

Author's Notes:_ Thanks for the reviews and the messages, which help me make this story better, especially as I had forgotten that Harry had destroyed the first vampire centuries ago. This plot hole has been fixed, now, and I took advantage of this re-posting to explain a bit more about Harry's apparent lack of reaction to Marie's death._


	8. Coming Clean

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX  
**Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings – I don't own anything relative to Harry Potter or X-Men. As of today, the previous chapter has been slightly updated to take into account some of your reviews about a possible plot hole – thanks for these. _

**Chapter 8 – Coming Clean  
**_posted February 25__th__, 2008_

"It is time."

Harry opened his eyes groggily, before focusing on the Elf maiden in front of him.

"It is time." she repeated.

Time for what, again?

His memories came back with a rush. "Young Harry has disappeared, then?"

"Not yet, but the seers Saw that the cone of absolute past of that particular event doesn't cross your cone of absolute future from now on, and you can proceed to whatever you have envisioned."

Harry was a little stunned by the obscure vocabulary, but he respected the Elven seers despite their language. He took his cloak and staff, and his list of addresses. Before leaving, he threw a last glance at the Divination apprentice who had just woken him. "Any suggestion for my destination?" he asked her.

"The hollow is full." she replied dreamily.

Harry thanked her and opened the drapes to exit the room.

"Stop!" she exclaimed suddenly. "You'll need this."

Harry looked as she was bringing a finger to her temple. Understanding what was going on, he let the drapes fall and approached her so that she could put the memory in his head. Once done, he smiled. "Thank you."

Once outside, he scanned the list to check her cryptic sentence about his destination, and, sure enough, among the places registered to the Potter family was a house named as Godric's Hollow. He transported himself near the house and entered it without pause, not noticing the rat eyeing the house from the other side of the road.

He could hear some dialogue upstairs and feel the anti-transport wards on the house. He paused for a few seconds, just enough to make sure that James was alive despite its corpse-like appearance.

He then climbed the stairs just as two green lights came from one of the bedrooms. Time to make a grand entrance. He walked into the room and saw Voldemort – whom he now knew as Tom Marvolo Riddle thanks to a few discussions with Dumbledore – looking at Lily pensively.

"So, _that_ is what Tom Riddle has become?"

The Dark Lord whirled around, seething at the use of his muggle name. He noticed him, and Harry only now thought about his own appearance. He hadn't thought about it before, but the stasis spell he had used maximized its efficiency by reducing the corporal mass it had to keep. Being a master at self-transfiguration, Harry hadn't taken care of using additional spells to rehabilitate him afterwards, and he now looked like a little old man leaning on a gnarled staff. His cloak was a little too large, too, and it covered most of his bent figure,

Voldemort aimed his wand at him and addressed him. "I am Lord Voldemort!"

Harry knew French. "Voldemort... Vol de mort..." he said thoughtfully. "Doesn't that mean Flight of Death in French? Or rather Theft of Death, in fact. Thievery is much older than flight in human civilization." He almost smirked at his memories about building a civilization, but looked at the self-proclaimed Lord instead. "Did you steal something from Lady Death, Tom?"

"For the last time," Voldemort started, yelling, "I am Lord V-"

"Voldemort, I know. A pitiful anagram if I ever saw one. Especially as it is a complete sentence, meaning that you have to say "I am" twice if you want to introduce yourself. As I said, Pitiful."

The Dark Lord seemed on the verge of cursing him, but he reined himself quickly. "Who are you?"

"Who am I? That's a very good question. Can't you answer it by yourself?" Harry asked. Applying his gift of self-transfiguration, he shot to his normal height and weight, and let his hood fall back, revealing his face.

Voldemort gasped. "YOU!"

Harry tilted his head, and smirked. "Me, indeed."

"You've crossed my path one time too many."

"Make that two. I don't intend on letting you win this one either." Harry said, before walking forward implacably.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" Voldemort exclaimed.

Nothing happened, and both wizards stopped moving, looking at Voldemort's wand in wonder. Understanding came quickly to Harry, though. 'The little vixen!' he thought, thinking of the effect of the Runes her mother had drawn on the three Potters. 'She really outdid herself on that one. Hmm... perhaps that's why I went so far in the past?' He shrugged his mental question aside for the moment, and, aloud, he addressed the suddenly powerless Dark Lord. "What now, Tom?"

That stopped the man's thoughts about a Pepper-Up potion gone bad – and the ensuing punishment for Snape. "Stop using that name! _Avada Kedavra!_"

Nothing happened on this try either, and Harry couldn't resist the urge of mocking Voldemort. "Well, Tom, I think you have cast your last spell already. No sparks for more. Need a new battery for your old wand?"

"Aargh! _Crucio! Concussio! Reducto! Avada Kedavra!_" Except the first word of the tirade, the others were perfectly executed spells... without result.

"I think it's time you pay for your rent in Hell, Tom." Harry commented, raising his staff. "Any last word?"

The Dark Lord was at a loss for words... and actions. He concentrated and tried to Apparate out, without result. Trying to activate his two emergency portkeys didn't yield any result either. And the man was blocking the only way out – the only other exit was a skylight too high to jump through efficiently. "You can't do this to me!" he yelled. "I'm Lord Voldemort!"

"You know, Tom, that was old the first time I heard it. Get ready, now. It might hurt a lil' bit. _Anima Extracto!_"

With an unearthly cry, Voldemort's soul was extracted from his body, in the form of a black cloud. Once in the air, it seemed to wait for something. Six other clouds came through the walls and joined the Dark Lord's.

"Seven parts?" Harry asked aloud, while keeping his concentration on the spell locking the soul in place. "That's more than I thought. Well... the more, the merrier. _Anima Consumo!_"

The seven parts of Voldemort's soul, reunited as one, shrieked again when a crimson flame started licking the bottommost part of it. It quickly travelled through it, however, leaving nothing in its wake as the soul was sent straight to Hell.

The only reason soul spells weren't restricted by the Ministry was because they didn't know about it – even if they did, the godly power requirement meant that few people could use it, even if they were using a staff like Harry's.

As it was, the only thing remaining from Voldemort was a rapidly decaying body. A mere minute afterwards, there was only ash in an empty robe – and the usual inner garments we won't talk about.

Harry looked around and spotted his mother. Like James, she had been struck by the Killing Curse. And, like him, her runes had activated and prevented the soul from leaving the body, only giving the the appearance of a dead body.

He was at a loss, now. What to do? Now that he had his biological parents with him, he wanted to experience growing up again – like he had done several times during his long life: seeing things from the eyes of a growing kid can give anyone a fresh point of view on the life of his peers. This time, however, they would be his true parents... the experience would be different.

He would just have to hide his numerous abilities. And his staff.

With a focused teleportation spell, said staff disappeared, transported in the same hideout in which he had hidden his Cup. His body and cloak were next, reducing until he was the proper size to climb his baby cot, and reducing some more afterwards. Using the memory given to him by the Elf maiden who had awoken him, less than a hour ago, he morphed to adapt to the current appearance of Harry Potter, and wandlessly transfigured his cloak into his baby garment, diaper included.

His last action before hiding behind the wooden panel of his crib was to send a bolt of energy to awaken his mother.

As he was hiding in the crib, and while his mother was awakening, a lumpy rat entered the room. It squeaked once upon seeing the state the room was in, before transforming into the rat Animagus known as Peter Pettigrew.

"Peter!" Lily exclaimed as soon as she opened her eyes. "It worked!"

"Er... great! What worked, exactly?" the slippery friend asked in his unsure manner.

"My plan to save us... wait a second... where's Harry?"

She rushed to the crib, only to find baby Harry appearing to sleep peacefully. She stroked his cheek tenderly, before pushing Peter out with a finger on her lips. When passing next to Voldemort's empty robe, she took her wand out and was ready to Vanish them when another idea crept into her red-haired head. She Summoned a plastic box from her kitchen, magically enlarged it, and levitated the garment inside. Only then did she leave the room with Peter and the Tupperware in tow.

"What happened?" the rat-like man was asking incessantly. "What happened?"

Thinking that he spoke about her revival, she smiled. "The Ancient Runes teacher gave me some ideas to protect oneself against You-Know-Who's curses. Apparently, it worked just fine. And you finished him for us! You'll be hailed as a hero, tomorrow, Peter. You'll see."

But Peter didn't want that. Since he had betrayed the Potters by agreeing to Lord Voldemort's demands, he had been tagged as Death Eater by... the other Death Eaters. And, learning that their master had been defeated by him would certainly push them into a personal crusade against him. "I don't want this." he said. "I didn't want this! I arrived, and he was..."

"It's all right, really." she replied. "I understand."

"You understand?" he asked, half afraid that she had actually understood his reasons behind his refusal.

"Yes. You've always been humble, Peter. I understand that you don't want the limelight. I won't say a thing. Sit here, please." she said as she was levitating the couch in its place. "I'll wake my lazy husband up."

James, lying on his back, didn't see Peter as the small man was already sitting. He only saw his wife with a radiant smile on her face. A smile that could mean only one thing. "It worked?" he asked weakly.

"Yes!" she nodded enthusiastically. "It's as the Professor told me. I have perhaps overdone it a bit, but it worked."

"Overdone? What do you mean?"

She bit her lower lip, and James had to restrain himself not to kiss it – the sight had driven him insane during his whole seventh year. "I might have added several fail-safe scenarios. And there are several sets of Runes I didn't know about, which I copied without checking... but there were no references about them! Can you believe that? I checked in all the books from Hogwarts' library, even in the Restricted Section!" She paused for a second. "I thought I had failed when he cast the Killing Curse... it really left us unconscious, you know? But Peter appeared, and he saved the day."

"Good, good... wait a second, here..." he frowned. His wife's excited chatter was difficult to follow. "What does Peter have to do in here?"

"The runes only protected the three of us, I think. Nothing could have prevented You-Know-Who from putting fire to the house as he left. But Peter entered and destroyed him. There was no trace save for His robes." she finished, pointing at the plastic box nearby.

"Where's Peter?" James asked, standing up. That's when he noticed the Secret Keeper he and Sirius had agreed upon – without even telling Lily. "Peter?" he asked dangerously.

"It's as she said." the mousy man said, while trying to make himself smaller – without effectively turning into a rat. "Really, James, it was like that. The Dark Lord was looking away, and I hit him with... with a Reducto! That's how he died!"

"Reducto makes things explode." James stated, looking at the empty clothes before watching at his dubious friend suspiciously. "Are you sure that it was a Reducto you used?"

"Er... that is..."

"Seriously, James!" Lily intervened. "You know, as well as I do, that magic reacts strangely when emotions are involved. Peter's Reducto might have made him burn from the inside out."

"Emotions, my ass..." James muttered. "Fear, yes, I could-"

"Stop right there, James Potter." Lily ordered. "He killed Him, and he's modest enough not to take glory from it. What do you want more?"

At that precise moment, Albus Dumbledore appeared in the doorway. Upon noticing the three friends arguing, his usually genial expression turned into one of confusion and he stopped moving.

A deep voice, easily recognizable as Hagrid's, came from behind him. "What is it, Professor Dumbledore?"

"Guard the door, Hagrid." Dumbledore said without turning. "We never know when Voldemort might attack."

"Oh, he did attack us." James commented.

"But he was defeated." Lily added, looking at Peter with a smile.

Dumbledore's eyebrows shot upwards at this revelation. He turned to his groundskeeper. "Guard the door anyway. There are other threats who mustn't get in." He then turned towards the three friends. "Now... what happened? James?"

Lily sighed discreetly. Trust Dumbledore to ask James first!

James looked at his hands. "Voldemort came. We fought. He killed me."

At Dumbledore's sudden intake of breath, Lily decided to speak up. "Professor Harold gave us many pointers about the usage of Runes in protection schemes. It appears that a particular set of runes prevent the killing curse from removing the soul from one's body."

"Soul magic?" Dumbledore asked, properly shocked. "You performed soul magic? _You_?"

"No." she replied staunchly. "I drew _Runes_. And it worked and kept us alive. Don't tell me we're going to Azkaban for this, as your tone suggests!"

"Well... the Ministry is wary of anyone performing magic on blood or soul..."

"Or with anything that can't be traced." James added. "I know this. I'm in the Auror program. If they could ban Potions, they would."

"They already ban several new potions each year." Lily commented off-handedly, and James winced, remembering one of their couples' apples of discord: Lily's talent in potions and the one man who had helped her achieve it... Severus Snape.

Dumbledore wasn't speaking. He was looking at Peter intently. Peter, who quivered each time James spoke up, and who calmed each time Lily said something. His wandless Legilimency, mastered by decades of use, came forward almost naturally, and he started to inspect the man's recent memories. What he found was disturbing. And it wasn't Peter's betrayal of the Potters to Voldemort – _that _had been a part of a larger master plan.

Dumbledore was a great chess player, but who often found the rules of chess too restrictive. Instead, he loved playing political games, and his current war with Voldemort had stroked his ego endlessly. Instead of what had happened in his last war with Grindelwald, he had the upper hand most of the time. He had then done like many players: he had started enjoying the game more than its outcome. The pleasure of seeing a perfectly timed manoeuvre bear fruit was like honey for a bear. Or lemon drops for a crazy Headmaster. He had almost forgotten that the lives he played with weren't his to endanger.

When he saw Peter's memories, he discovered that the game now included a third played. Apparently, while Peter was watching over the house, an old man had entered, clad in a grey mantle and holding a staff. That man hadn't been seen again, and everything that remained from Voldemort was an empty set of robes. And the Potters were alive, all of them! His carefully elaborated plan to win the game while continuing to play it in secret had crashed down in flames. And to think that he had carefully selected the family that would be hosting Harry Potter after the events dictated by the Prophecy. A perfect family of normal muggles. What best environment to raise a wizard hero?

That plan was off the window, and Dumbledore needed another. And, first, he needed to find himself an opponent. He had to make sure that Tom Riddle was dead and not strolling naked in the middle of the night. And, if that Dark Lord was thoroughly dead, he could create himself another. Malfoy, for instance, could be the perfect little Dark Lord... yes... that would do. Just as long as he didn't outrank him in power.

Speaking of which... Dumbledore only knew of one man using a staff to do magic. And it was the second incidence of that man with the scene of the crime.

"Does any of you know where Professor Harold is?" he asked, shocking the others by his apparent change of subject. When no one answered him, he extracted his wand and tried several location spell, but all of them told the same thing: said Professor wasn't on this Earth. Dumbledore needed to think.

Barely saluting the three friends, he took his leave and returned to Hogwarts with a surprised Hagrid in tow.

Dumbledore loved plans inside plans and schemes inside schemes, but, in his hurry of finding himself another little friend to play, he had forgotten one thing – or perhaps it was the habit of seeing all his plans succeed. When a plan fails, if you don't want to be caught by its failure, you should remove all your fingerprints from it.

As it was, several articles had been posted to the Daily Prophet's next edition. Severus Snape had been planted as a spy into the Dark Lord's ranks. Sirius had been announced as the Potter's Secret Keeper and betrayer, while the man was arriving at Godric's Hollow right after Dumbledore had left, closely followed by Remus.

The five friends spent parts of the night discussing. Since Sirius was there, Peter came clean about his role as Secret Keeper and his betrayal, for which he apologized, placing due blame on his fear of the seemingly all-powerful Dark Lord. As he was leaving, he also told them the truth about his role in Voldemort's actual demise, as well as the fact that an old man had entered the house earlier. Needless to say, he wasn't their friend any more after this. But, at least, they didn't come after him like the plague.

Remus came clean about his lycanthropy too – or lack thereof. It surprised Lily that Dumbledore could have allowed a werewolf in the school, and it surprised the others that it had taken so long for him to tell them that he wasn't one any more. He explained about his vow to Professor Harold, and they left it at that.

* * *

The morning sun found Lily sleeping in her bed, Harry in his crib, Sirius on the couch... and James and Remus sipping coffee on the kitchen counter. And an owl holding a wizarding newspaper knocking at the window.

After paying and taking the Prophet, James sat back and brought his cup to his mouth. But he didn't drink. Instead, he dropped the cup in surprise. "How dare they!" he exclaimed.

"What?" Remus asked.

"They tell everything... as if it had been planned. Our death, Harry being a hero... Sirius convicted..."

"Hmrf!" came from the couch.

"It seems that someone saw it that way." Remus said in his usual calm and collected manner. "Now, the questions are the usual: who, and why, for starters. And how."

"Who? No idea. Why? Same. How?" James paused, scratching his chin. "Perhaps a Seer made a false prophecy."

"...or not." Remus said, his eyes dangerously close to the amber tinge they usually got when he was in his werewolf form.

"What do you mean?"

"Imagine, James. Someone hears a prophecy, and decides to place a bet on it."

"Only to find that it was void after the fact."

"But without clearing the necessary tracks."

"What tracks?"

"The Prophet, for one."

"They never tell who their sources are."

"Because we don't own it." Remus said, knowing that James would make the connection.

And it worked. "Yet." James said dangerously, before standing up brusquely. "I'm off to Gringotts." he said before Apparating out.

Remus smiled and, after cleaning James' broken cup and spilled tea, counted backwards from ten. James reappeared at three, looking sheepish. "How was it?" Remus asked while reading the few parts of the Prophet that were unrelated to tonight's non-event.

"Closed." was the laconic reply.

"Good. When I said "for one" about the Prophet, I had something else in mind."

"What is it?"

"It's a secret for the moment, but I've received work invitations from the Department of Mysteries. With my lycanthropy not hindering the recruitment process, I have been accepted, and I'll work with them soon. Perhaps with the Unspeakables."

"You know that, as soon as you are one, you can't speak about it any more?"

"Yes. That's why I'm talking to you right now." Remus answered with a smile, before turning serious. "There's a hall, in the Department, with all the known Prophecies made to or about wizards or witches."

"You mean..."

"If the prophecy is registered, we can perhaps see who it had been made to, and track the leak from there."

A pause. "You want to flip for it? Gringotts or the Mysteries?" James asked.

Remus snorted. "As if I could enter Gringotts and tell them that you buy the Prophet out. You need to be there in person."

"But I so wanted to see the Department of Mysteries." James pouted.

"You work in the Ministry every day. Do you really need an excuse to go there?"

"Hmm... no."

"Good answer."

"You know," James smirked, "that was what Lily says when-"

"Stop right there! I don't want too much information about your love life, thank you."

A third voice made itself known. "Whose love life?" Sirius asked from the couch.

"That's Sirius for you." James said playfully. "Sleeps like a log, but certain keywords can awaken him in an instant."

James and Remus laughed at their friend's pouting expression.

* * *

The next day saw two drastic changes in the wizarding world scenery.

Firstly, the Daily Prophet was bought, the deal making only a dent in the Potter Family fortune – albeit a sizeable one, The new owner first pushed every reporter awake to work on retraction stories for an immediate edition. The fact that the new owner was the man they had described as dead in the morning's edition did strike some of them as strange, and they adopted more professional conducts from then on. The others? They wrote what was asked from them.

James then headed to the editor-in-chief's office. After several bouts of heated dialogue, he got out with a new information and a shocked and confused state of mind. At home, he found Remus, who was equally shocked.

"How was it?" the ex-werewolf asked.

"The buying went fine. Objectors were paid double for their parts. Few refused afterwards. New edition available shortly."

"Concise and informative. I think I'll like the new Prophet." Remus commented. "The other bit?"

"The matter for the stories was sent by a Hogwarts owl."

"And we don't know any students able and willing to pull this off. Even as a prank."

A pause. "You don't seem surprised." James accused.

Remus fished a piece of paper from his pocket, and flattened it on the table. "He signed." he said, before heading to the coffee pot.

The message was very short: _From S.P.T. to A.P.W.B.D._

The expletive James uttered shocked the old lady living three blocks down the road.

* * *

_**Midday...**_

"Now that we have the who and how..." Remus began. "let's try finding the why."

"And how to prevent him from interfering more in our lives." James added sombrely.

"And to think... the bastard recruited Snape!" Sirius added dejectedly.

"Sirius!" Lily admonished. "I understand your concern, but try not to swear in front of Harry."

Harry, sitting in the high chair, laughed at her mother's tone and his godfather's reaction to it. The larger man was properly cowed.

"He likes when I do it." the canine Animagus protested.

"That's even more a reason not to do it." she continued.

Remus frowned. "It's almost as if Dumbledore actively worked for Voldemort instead of fighting him."

"I remember when he came, last night." James said. "He was confused to see the three of us alive."

"Is it dementia?" Sirius asked.

"On the Chief Warlock and Supreme Mugwump and Headmaster of Hogwarts?" James asked, before shaking his head. "We'll have so stack our deck in order to even ask for him to be checked by St Mungo."

"What can we actually do?" Lily asked.

The silence that answered her was more than enough to lower their already darkened mood.

"Let's just hope that we find something to do in the next ten years." Sirius suddenly.

"Why?" Remus asked.

"Because, in ten years," James began sombrely, "Harry will be at Hogwarts with that madman as Headmaster... and Snape as teacher."

"And, knowing how you two were..." Remus started.

"...it's a disaster waiting to happen." Sirius finished.

* * *

_**That evening...**_

The Aurors in James' section weren't on active duty that evening. After all, the Dark Lord being dead, there were only a few followers to round up, weren't there?

"To Voldemort's defeat!" Sirius exclaimed, raising his third cocktail already.

James held his glass up, although it was the same since the start of their little celebration. The Aurors had met in a muggle bar near the Leaky Cauldron – it was held by a couple of muggleborn magic-users, who saw no trouble in using a separate room for their wizarding customers.

"To Voldemort's defeat!" the others repeated, cheering.

One of them interrupted himself in the middle of the cheer, though. Frank Longbottom grasped a medallion he was always wearing on himself.

"What is it?" James asked, instantly alert.

"The detection wards around my house... they've been crossed. At least five dark wizards. And Alice is alone with Neville!"

James nodded, before standing up and addressing the crowd of colleagues. "Attention! Enemies are at Frank's place." He then turned to his shocked friend. "Frank, the address?"

Once the address was uttered, everyone Apparated there. A short distance from their arrival point, magical activity could be noticed as seven intruders were trying to get past the house's protection wards.

"Charge!" Sirius yelled, running towards them.

"Sirius, wait!" James exclaimed, but it was too late. Four Death Eaters had already noticed the running figure, and were aiming at him. Swearing, James followed him at a more sedate pace, placing a shield on his friend every couple of steps. It was a tactic that had already been applied with success before, but coordinated tactics implied a modicum of coordination, and charging blindly wasn't the perfect example of coordination.

Frank hadn't drunk as much as Sirius had, but it was his house which was under attack, and, after a quick exchange with a co-worker, he ran forward as well. The other Aurors fanned out, taking care to cover every angle.

Ten Aurors had arrived to fight seven Death Eaters. It wasn't balanced, but the dark wizards and witches used Unforgivables while the Aurors didn't. It didn't prevent them from using other deadly curses while dodging and generally avoiding the incoming fire. One Auror fell to a Killing Curse while two others were incapacitated by a Cruciatus followed by a Bone Shattering Curse for the first and an Explosion Curse for the second. Among the dark wizards, two were down due to Stunners – teams of Aurors using that spell included one who took care of recasting it as soon as one of their opponents was Enervated, taking advantage of the few seconds of disorientation following the rude awakening. When the team had the advantage in numbers, it worked quite well, since an enemy using an Enervation spell wasn't casting spells on you at the same time.

In the last minutes of the fight, Sirius got hit by a Cutting Curse on his leg. It caused him to fall down heavily, bleeding heavily.

"Widdle Siri hurt?" a mocking voice made itself known through Frank's front lawn. "Widdle Siri want a hug?"

Unfortunately – for her – Bellatrix had a voice which could awaken Sirius wherever volume it was. Sirius looked around, feigning confusion but aiming his wand carefully. When he noticed that his cousin was ready to cast another spell on him, he threw all his might in his own curse. "_DIFFINDO!_"

The spell cleaved straight through Bellatrix's abdomen, grazing the Death Eater behind her – as well as covering him with blood and gore.

"No last word, bitch?" Sirius yelled. "Good!"

"_Sectumsempra!_" came from his side. Not able to move, Sirius thought his last second come, but James was still up and casting, and a shield materialized between the spell and Sirius. The Death Eater turned his head. "Potter!"

"And here I thought I was hearing voices." Sirius muttered. "That seals it. IT'S SNAPE!" he yelled.

"Shut up, Black. _Ossus Conflagro! Doloriam Gangrena! Crucio!_"

The first two curses were pushed away by James' shields, while Sirius was busy protecting from another Death Eater and dispatching him. Just in time, though, as the Cruciatus cleaved right through James's shield. The pain was intense, but short-lived as well. Holding a Cruciatus necessitated concentration, and one couldn't maintain such concentration while fighting other targets. Especially when one was struck in the middle of a perfectly relaxing session of torture-your-childhood-enemy. Snape was hit by a Concussion spell so strong that the wall behind him gave him another.

As good brothers, Rodolphus and Rastaban Lestrange wanted to leave but not without each other. However, with many curses hitting them, taking the necessary time to catch each other's eye was a luxury. And they both fell to Stunners – that was another advantage of the Stunners: whereas casting several Killing Curses had only one effect and several Imperius just transferred the "master" voice, the Stunner's power was cumulative.

When one of the Aurors fell, each Auror took it like a personal blow. But tonight, one had fallen and seven enemies had been taken down, six of which alive although three were in a bad state.

"Now that we have time to think, Sobering Charms for everyone! The cavalry will arrive sooner or later, and we don't want those criminals to fly away because of some "circumstances"." James commanded, before turning an accusing finger towards his best friend. "And you, Sirius. Never do that charge thing again without at least warning us!" A short pause. "Now, let's see this leg. _Episkey_. I hope it teaches you something."

"Episkey?"

"No, my dumb friend. To stay safe. And alive." James said, holding his hand to help his friend up.

"What's the fun in that?" Sirius asked as he stood up tentatively, only to wince as soon as his weight shifted on his injured leg.

"That's St Mungo for you, again." James said, eyeing his friend critically.

"Right into my plans. There's this little nurse..."

James shook his head. "You're incorrigible."

"Hey! That's what the ladies tell me." A pause. "James?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks, mate. You're a good bloke. I hope Harry takes after you."

"Compared to you." James asked, smiling mischievously. "He'd better."

"Hey!"

_**To be continued in next chapter: Family Man...**_

Author's Notes: _This is where fiction meets... the same fiction. I have a couple chapters planned after this one, but, as I don't intend to follow canon at all, I'll need time to organize my thoughts to build a proper storyline afterwards (though I have some ideas). Thanks for the reviews, you know that they keep me going (and I can get some ideas from there too – winks)._


	9. Family Man

**VOLDEMORT'S LAST SPELL, by Louis IX  
**Disclaimer: _Check first chapter for full disclaimer and other warnings – I don't own anything relative to Harry Potter or X-Men._

**Chapter 9 – Family Man  
**_posted March 9__th__, 2008_

Harry's first years in his new life were strange. At some point, he had thought he'd die of boredom, but he soon realized that the amount of games, toys, and books available to him were much more numerous than the usual things people owned in the previous millennia.

However, he had to be careful not to display too much intelligence too early. That's why he liked when his godfather was taking care of him. Sirius played with him most of the time, but, when he wasn't... he wasn't. And Harry could read whatever he wanted, especially recent and not-so-recent History recounts, undisturbed for long stretches of time – especially when Sirius was bringing a young woman home.

Harry was much more careful around Remus, and around his mother as well. He knew that, when either of them left him alone, they used to cast spells to monitor him remotely. Thinking about it, Harry reflected that the earlier millennia's models of education, while less "secure" and thus having a higher mortality rate, were also more tolerant for the children's activities. Here and now, he felt as though he was surrounded by raw cotton: it was pleasant, it was warm and soft... but he couldn't do much.

That's why he seemed to like his godfather so much.

He didn't dislike anyone, of course. His parents were marvellous, their friends were nice, and even his godmother – Alice Longbottom – was pleasant. She often brought little Neville for the two of them to play together. But, when everyone was there, Harry preferred to walk to the adults' table to hear about the world's state rather than pile colourful cubes of softened wood.

That was how he learnt about Dumbledore's initial mistakes, and how the Potters were working on destabilizing the man. And how Lucius Malfoy's machinations were often counterbalancing them.

* * *

_**One year later...**_

Harry had enough of pretending. He had spent the last two years sneaking behind his guardians' back to read and to exercise his magic, and he honestly thought that some gifted children were actually able to read at age three. He had prepared his parents by asking to be read from actual books, and had just had a pile of "just" children's picture books for Christmas.

In front of the somewhat stunned family and their friends, he proceeded in reading the few words that appeared in the story.

"Well... that was unexpected." James commented.

Lily frowned. "Not completely. He has always shown an interest in books and reading. I know that some muggles push for their children to be able to read even earlier than that – some of them to the extent of shunning physical activity."

"I don't want my children to shun physical activity!" James exclaimed. "They have to be fit to play Quidditch, after all."

Lily, who had smiled at the first sentence, half-raised to smack the back of his head, but her swollen belly prevented her.

"Easy, Lils." James said gently. "We don't want to rush our babies, do we?"

"Of course not!" She sighed. "I thought I was ready to give birth earlier, though. They are pretty... heavy."

"With twins, it's often twice the usual payload." Sirius commented, earning himself a smack up the head from Remus.

"Thanks, Remus." Lily said.

"I didn't want you to move too suddenly and give birth on the sofa." he replied.

"Actually..." she winced.

"What? What?" "Are they coming?" "What should I do?" the three men exclaimed, running to her side.

She smiled, and relaxed. "Nothing, guys. I just wanted to make you sweat a bit."

They looked at each other and rolled their eyes, each of them having the same thought: 'As soon as it is finished, this means war...'

* * *

_**A week later...**_

The prank war ended before it even started. Lily had some difficulties in delivering the children to the world, and had to suffer the magical equivalent of a caesarean section. It was a little less painful and involved lots of foul-smelling potions, but she was still confined, with the twin girls, to the maternity ward of St Mungo. James was able to spend his nights and most of his days at the hospital, helping his bedridden wife to take care of the two toddlers. Remus and Sirius moved incessantly between the hospital and Potter Manor – where James and Lily had moved soon after Voldemort was defeated.

That confusion around Harry, involving "parental figures" less attentive to his every move, meant something for him: freedom!

Now that he knew more about the magical arts and their latest achievements, he was actually ready to try to heal Marie. He started by complaining to Sirius that he was tired, and went upstairs for a nap. After an hour of relaxing meditation to prepare for the upcoming night's activity, he stood up and warded his door, before switching to his older self and Summoning his staff.

First stop: Diagon Alley's apothecary.

After paying for the Mandrake cure – with some Galleons he had shamelessly taken from the empty pasta pot on the high shelf – and returning home, he stashed the bottle in the bottom of his toy chest. He then morphed back to his younger self, cancelled the ward, and went to sleep – for real, this time.

After that nap, he was quite fresh despite the nearing evening, but he hid it well. And, as soon as he was certain that Sirius wouldn't come into his room for the night, he changed into the shape he was in when posing as Wolverine, opened his window and headed towards the Forbidden Forest.

Towards the grave containing the pieces from Marie's statue.

When said statue had been smashed to bits, he wasn't aware of his magic yet, and he had grabbed the largest pieces that he could recognize – involving a shapely rear end. Now that he had the power and the knowledge to do better, he was ready to do so.

He waved his staff around the grave to excavate it, and, with the floating rocks in tow, he returned to the destroyed chamber – temporarily Stunning a bear on his way. Once again, he moved his staff in a particular fashion, and several rocks rose in the air while others didn't.

Not that he had the pieces, he smiled. Puzzles were a common game among kids "his" age.

His staff rotated in a circular way, and all the floating pieces began to move in the air in the same manner. Soon, blocks found neighbouring blocks that could fit beside them. And, a few minutes afterwards, a whole statue was looking back at Harry.

"Marie..." he whispered. He hoped that she would be all right after this, but the books about the cure had been very vague on the subject. Some people had lost their mind, while others had been fine as soon as they had awoken. But there was no clear-cut study about it. None knew anything about the place where their souls stayed, or if they could be considered dead or not. He almost snorted. Wizards had shunned the non-wizards so forcefully that very few of them knew about the thing known as scientific method – and even fewer applied it to the world around them.

Using his staff, he made the statue approach him horizontally, as if he was standing beside an invisible bed. When she was locked into place, he extracted the cure and began to liberally coat her with it – the insides of the bottle had been magically enlarged, so that it contained enough solution to coat one mid-sized human.

It took him a while, but nothing came to disturb him – not even an alarm from the proximity wards he had cast around the cave and around his room, back home. Once his task was finished, he looked around. Marie wasn't out of the woods immediately, though – figuratively and literally. Remembering the instructions, Harry thought that she would spend at least a week for her body to retrieve its normal tinge. However, she had something he had almost forgotten: he mutant power. As he was distractedly caressing her cheek, looking at the cave and imagining the remodelling he could do for her, he felt something tug at his power.

He recognized the feeling: he had felt it before. And, if she was siphoning his power... that meant that she'd heal much faster, too. Carefully, he bent forward, grabbed her hand, and kissed her lips. The draw was larger this time, but, contrarily to the previous times, it slowed without them separating.

"What is it?" he asked aloud, standing and looking at her in confusion – he was still holding her hand, but it seemed that it didn't have the usual effect.

"_It?_ Am I an object for you, now?" a voice sounded. It was soft and raspy at the same time, but he'd recognize it anywhere.

"Hey! You're awake."

"And with a kiss, no less. Sleeping Beauty thanks you, Prince Charming."

He smiled at her and leaned to give her another kiss. It was only then that she realized that he was still holding her hand. The kiss ended abruptly. "Hey! What's this?"

"Precisely what I was asking earlier, beauty." he said with a smile, but turned serious quickly. "Has your mutant power... vanished?"

"I don't think so." she said, frowning and looking down. "It's more... it's like it was wild, before, you know? Now... I feel..." she looked up and found his eyes looking at her pensively. "I feel in control. I can control it! It's great!" she exclaimed, standing suddenly and jumping around in delight.

He smiled widely at her discovery and at her joy, but he didn't say anything. Something was disturbing him. He switched to Mage Sight and discovered it quickly enough. He snorted once, twice, before laughing outright. "I should have known!"

"What?"

"Do you know the date?" he asked.

"Er... no. Why?"

"You didn't sleep a century like Sleeping Beauty. But you still slept for several years. I'm sorry... I could have come earlier, but..."

"Shh..." she whispered, putting a finger on his lips. "What did you want to say, earlier? About something you should have known."

He looked at her. This could change everything. Or not. "I found my identity."

"Oh." A pause. "And what is it? Who are you, I mean?"

"Harry Potter. I'm a wizard. Magic exists, and there are some people – whom you could call mutants, by the way – who hide from the non-magical world."

"Wow." Another pause. She was surprised, but, as a mutant who regularly met people with strange abilities, the piece of news wasn't _that _surprising. Still... "That's something."

"I think that's why you stopped leeching my power, earlier. I think you took enough to jump-start a magical ability, and it allowed you to control yourself."

"You sure of that?" she asked.

He Summoned his staff and presented it to her. "Take this."

Despite her surprise at seeing the immobile bit of wood jump from its resting place against the wall into his hand, she obeyed and grasped it. And immediately felt something coming from it in waves. Power. A power so great that she could get intoxicated quite quickly if she allowed herself to be drawn to it. Now that she was in control, she didn't want to be intoxicated. At all. She extended her arm, intending to give it back to Harry, when the staff buckled under her hand, sending a ray of light toward him.

He moved quickly to the side, and, dashing forward, he took the staff from her hand.

"I don't want it." she said, her lower lip quivering. "It was... it was too much. I want my control."

"All right. Come here." he said, opening his arms to soothe her. "But you know what?"

"What?"

"This just proved what I said. You can do magic, now. You're a witch."

"A _witch?_"

"It's just a gender distinction, not an insult. I'm a wizard, you're a witch."

"And where have you learnt to control that... that power?"

He looked at her fixedly, and she suddenly remembered his age. Or, rather, what she knew of his age. Which was enough, for her.

"Oh. Right. You learnt it before."

He nodded. "I don't know how it came, but I started to learn it ages ago. It was difficult, and hazardous, but fun at the same time. Nowadays, there are schools around the world, for children to learn this in a controlled environment."

She looked at him in wonder, before shaking her head. "I'm too old for school."

"I could teach you, you know." he said offhandedly.

"Hmm... tempting, but no." she replied. "Not today, at least."

"Why not today?"

"Well... we have some time before us, I think. And I also think that years of sleep had been enough for me to want something." she said, her eyes staring at him.

He looked down. "Well... I'd like to... but there's this other thing..."

"What? You got remarried?"

"No!" he immediately exclaimed, reassuring her somewhat. "It's just that... I learnt a bit more than my name and got more than this staff." He sat down, his legs crossed. "It's complicated, in fact."

He started to explain his findings and continued by retelling his current living arrangements. It took some time, and, when he finished, the sun was almost up and Marie's mouth was wide open.

"_Fermet' book utin neyy vaker ed'din._" he said, smiling.

"What?"

He blushed. "Sorry. I meant to say that you were going to catch flies, and all..."

"And it came out in Elvish, right?"

Surprised, he looked at her for a second, before nodding.

After a thoughtful moment, she looked at him and smiled. "I might have a way for us to meet and for you to be freed of your state of infancy for a few hours a day."

"Two birds with a stone? Do tell."

Her smile became a wide smirk. "I can babysit you."

He snorted, before laughing outright, quickly followed by Marie. When they were calmed, he looked at her. "And you think you could have your wicked way with your little charge, too?"

She huffed playfully. "Let's not say this. I think that you are the one robbing the cradle, here, old man."

"Old man?" he asked innocently. "And here I thought you said Prince Charming, earlier... I'll show you what this old man can do!" he exclaimed, before jumping towards her. The chase that resulted was only finished when he had trapped her against a wall. "Who's the old man?" he growled devilishly.

"Oh, no! Please, someone help me from the evil wizard!" she called softly.

"Speaking of wizards... I think I have to return home." he said. "My godfather is moving around, and he'll "wake me up" soon."

She groaned. "You're evil."

"Of course." he smiled. "You just said so." A pause. "Seriously... I'm sorry I have to leave. Can you get by on your own for the day?"

"Where? Here?"

"Of course not! I can travel with you and drop you in London, for instance. Or anywhere in the world. But, until you learn to teleport like I do, you won't be able to pass as my babysitter if I leave you too far away. Xavier's school is out of the question, for now."

She was thoughtful for a few seconds, before agreeing. "All right. London it is. Lead the way, good sir."

And, taking her hand in his, he did just that.

* * *

On his way to the kitchen, Sirius paused at his godson's bedroom door and smiled. He reached the doorknob and tried to turn it, but it wouldn't budge. After a couple tries, his smile vanished and he was shaking the door, his mind full of scenarios where vengeful Death Eaters were kidnapping or torturing Harry.

After a particularly violent shake, the door opened and he rushed inside... only to find the three-year-old boy sitting in his bed and rubbing his eyes sleepily.

"Wha' is it, Pa'foot?" Harry asked tiredly – after his nightly activities, he _was _a little bit fatigued.

The canine Animagus looked around the room and tested the window twice before turning toward the bed with a forced smile. "Nothing, pup. Just checking on you." He then returned to the door. "Breakfast will be ready in a couple minutes."

"Awwight."

After a last look around, Sirius left the room and Harry smiled. 'Just in time.' he thought.

* * *

With Marie there to "take care" of him, Harry could spend even more time as his older self. The two of them arranged for the young woman to build herself a flat in a nearby building, and they spent their time together in various endeavours.

One of them was to discover their bodies once more. Since Harry – and now Marie – had some shape-shifting abilities, it led to interesting scenarios, but all of them were executed in good spirit. Harry even succeeded in "borrowing" a Time Turner that his dad had filched from the Auror school. Once in its possession, it was child's play to return it "just after" having taken it.

The problem with having a healthy sex life with a beautiful and willing woman with close to no birth control was... the kids. When Harry was nearing his fifth birthday, Marie found herself pregnant. As soon as he learnt about it, he decided to keep the Time Turner for himself, replacing it with a non-working copy, transfigured from a real hourglass. From that moment, he spent a day with Marie for each day passed with his parents and their friends. Nine months later, a little boy was born, whom they named Ryan Louis Potter.

This new responsibility caused some problems in Harry's "regular" life, one of them becoming evident when Lily indulged in James' request to draw a magical Family Tree. As the local Charm expert, she was the only one knowing the spell, after all. The enchanted quill drew James' ancestors and Lily's as well, before writing down Harry's. And it stopped.

The two Potters looked at each other, then at their children playing nearby. Weren't the twins Potter too? Looking closer, James remarked that the quill wasn't inactive. Far from it.

The writing instrument was drawing lines over Harry's name. Incessantly.

They dismissed the event and tried again, but it produced the same results again and again. Lily knew her spell theory quite well, but even that knowledge wouldn't have been able to explain exactly _what _was going on: the quill tried to draw lines between ancestors and descendants, but the names' position was directly relative to their date of birth. And most of Harry's direct children were dead millennia ago.

Except Ryan.

Thankfully, the quill always tried to write the first children before going to the next. And Harry had had so many children that the Potter always interrupted the spell way before Ryan's name came forward.

It would have been creepy, otherwise: how could a four-year-old become a father?

Harry still had his ongoing quest, and one of his recurrent task was to round up all registered werewolves in Britain to heal them. With the help from the thankful Lycans, he ferreted out the ones that weren't registered – either in fear from the magical government or because they preferred to cause havoc – and healed them as well. Those who were inherently evil were tipped off to the Ministry afterwards and sent to the wizarding prison.

Concerning the vampires, his search was more difficult because the blood-sucking anomalies didn't have a registry in the Ministry of Magic. It was only by finding one and exploring all its contact that he was able to remove them from the surface of the Earth – at least Britain. In this hunt, he even had some help from several particularly grateful Lycans, one of them being Remus himself. They proved invaluable, as experience told him – repeatedly – that immortality wasn't the same as invulnerability.

These two pursuits went well in England, but the Continental werewolves and vampires quickly noticed that their brethren were healed and destroyed – respectively. And they sent reinforcements. When they noticed this, Harry and Remus took a different approach.

They first identified all the contacts a particular werewolf or vampire had, using Legilimency or Veritaserum as needed. In that network, they tried to find the most active individuals, and pruned the hierarchy by removing these ones first, followed by its underlings, and so on.

It was a long process, and Harry knew that it wasn't finished when, years later, he received his acceptance letter.

* * *

Harry was still spending two days for each rotation of the Earth. The second one was spent at Xavier's school, where, posing as a new teacher, he spent his days with his lawfully married wife and their son.

Little Ryan wasn't developing fast for his age, but the tests done in the school's medical wing showed that his DNA was a mutant's. He proved this several times, when he found himself in a scuffle – something he liked very much... a little too much for Marie's peace of mind. His scratches healed quite quickly, and his bones were exceptionally hard. Harry witnessed him joking with friends that they wouldn't be able to break his leg with a baseball bat. The bat broke in two.

Harry was happy to have a healthy son, but he also knew the dangers of overconfidence. However, kids being kids, Ryan continued to rush into danger as soon as he found it. Each time he witnessed it or heard about it, Harry sighed, hoping that the years would appease his son's impetuousness.

* * *

During the same period, Harry's parents hadn't been inactive in their own struggle, either. In order to defend himself from their accusations, Dumbledore had pulled many strings. His first move had been to push the Ministry to outlaw James' relatively brutal purchase of the Daily Prophet. That allowed him to control the paper once again, and he made good use of it to slander the Potters and their close friends – successfully pushing their other friends away. After a few years, the remaining group of friends was limited to the Potters and the Longbottoms, as well as Sirius and Remus. They had additional friends in the muggle village they lived in, but close to no other among the wizards and witches. The only exception was Minerva McGonagall, but the older witch was under Dumbledore's scrutiny because of that friendship, and she couldn't do much.

Among them, all of them had lost their job at some point, mostly because of Dumbledore's machinations. Truth be told, Sirius' particular way of life had had some impact in his resignation from the Auror forces. The man's joyous nature had made him completely ignore the Statute of Secrecy when he flew his broom over London. He tried to play Quidditch professionally afterwards, but his career in sports was even shorter – for the same reasons.

Sirius' family was still considering him _persona non grata_. Even when his mother died, during Harry's "fifth" year, he wasn't invited to the funeral. He only learnt of this when he received a letter from Gringotts inviting him to a private meeting. Apparently, the crazy old woman who had been his mother hadn't thought of making a will, believing that the family tapestry was enough to determine who was inheriting the massive wealth of the Black family. Thankfully for Sirius, it wasn't, and, as the oldest male of the next generation, he received it all. Unfortunately, he didn't have the knowledge of the political prestige that was linked to it, and, even if he had, he was too lazy to use it properly.

The man was still young and easy-going, and he had many run-ins with women of the same age, whether it was in the village near the Potter's manor or other towns. Unbeknownst to him, in one of these circumstances, he forgot to use a couple of Charms – due both to him drinking too much and James pranking his wand – and the young lady found herself expecting – and having – a baby boy afterwards. Since he hadn't taken care of leaving a card when Apparating away, she didn't know how to reach him. Only the Goblins would be able to tell Sirius about his son, but it would be years later – when the boy would reach his eleventh year and receive an invitation to the nearest magical school.

Despite their difficulties, the group of friends had never had any problem with the Goblins – perhaps because of the three families' fortune. Their only trouble was to reach the bank when they wanted: since Dumbledore's mishaps and subsequent intrigues, Aurors had been sent to patrol Diagon Alley every day. And some of these Aurors had been brainwashed by the old man into believing the Potters guilty of an imaginary crime: Dumbledore's political weight had allowed him to pass a law prosecuting anyone "turning Dark" with the proviso that he was the only one able to declare that a given individual was guilty of this... without proof.

Of course, their Floo access was blocked, and their use of official portkeys severely restricted. However, the Potters and Lord Black knew something that even Dumbledore didn't: the goblins knew about muggle technology, and the diminutive creatures had several phone lines already – although it was in offices where humans didn't go. Some of Gringotts' customers were muggleborn, after all. Since some of them had a bit of money to invest _and _were open-minded enough to do so on muggle enterprises. Because of this, the bank had needed to stay in contact with the muggle world – and what was better than phones to do so? Once the stranded friends had the bank's number, it was child's play to talk to a Goblin. And, since the Goblins weren't limited by the restrictions the Potters were under, they were able to magically travel to Potter Manor at any time to discuss monetary arrangements.

For a nominal fee, the goblin warders even helped to protect the Manor against magical detection. And, at some point during Harry's "seventh" year, the Longbottoms and Remus had taken advantage of this and had come to inhabit the large dwelling.

However, the group of friends was seriously considering relocating to another country, in order to give Neville and Harry a magical education far from the scheming Headmaster. They were discussing about it when the solution presented itself with fracas. A glass-shattering fracas, in fact.

An owl flew through a window with an acceptance letter in its claws.

Or, rather, the body of the owl did. Its mind was clearly not there, and the Potters watched, shocked, as the brown avian started to leak blood on their carpet. Another sound came from the window, but they barely noticed that another bird had entered the house as well, although with more caution.

Generally, the group of friends didn't receive much mail, and owl mail even less due to the protective wards cast around the house. When they opened the letter, their surprise reached another level.

It was an acceptance letter, for Harry and Neville, in the prestigious magical school up north. The one they had come from. The one the Headmaster of which was their current opponent in the life-sized chess game they were playing. Hogwarts.

"How dare he!" Lily shrieked. "How dare Dumb-and-bore try to extend his reach over our children! Isn't the rest of wizarding Britain enough?"

The others were quite shocked by her outburst, but even more when the other bird opened its beak and uttered a very distinctive cry.

"_RAAAAAIIIIII!_"

Lily jumped in fright, while James and Sirius had paled even before turning around. In front of them, now preening its dark feathers, was an augurey – also called an Irish Phoenix.

"It's bad omen..." James muttered to Sirius, who nodded.

After her first surprise, Lily was calmer, though, and she looked at the two men in turn. "What do you mean? It's just a bird!"

"Augurey's cries mean death." James said sombrely, not letting the bird out of his eyesight. Sirius merely nodded.

Lily put her hands to her hips. "And what about a Grim, Sirius?" she asked. "Should we fear for our lives when you transform?"

The addressed man forgot about the bird and turned around to look at her, a smirk in place. "Of course, you should. I'm the king of pranks, after all!"

"Which put you only in second place in this house." James commented, smirking as well. "Since _I _am the emperor of pranks."

"Boys!" Lily huffed, before going to the regal bird. Only then did she notice something: the augurey had blood on its talons. And feathers. "James!"

"Yes, dear? Oh, dear!"

"Drop the "dear", dear." she admonished him. "Do you think he killed that owl?"

Before James could utter the first word of "I don't know", the augurey had lifted its left leg, on which a parchment was tied. It read:

_Scoil do Dhraoithe an Éiru  
(Irish school of magic)_

_Dear MM. Potter and Longbottom,_

_Word of your situation has come to our ears, and we would like to extend a hand of friendship in these dire times. We fondly remember the interactions our countries had before the uprising of the menace that was Voldemort, and Dumbledore's subsequent takeover._

_We are pleased to inform you that you have both been accepted to enter our humble place of education, should you so choose. Know that, if you do, you'll share learnings with people from various places and races. Leprechauns, centaurs, goblins, even house-elves have come to our institution before, and continue to do so to this day. We take heed of the positions your respective family is in to know that this particular fact doesn't detract from our proposal._

_What follows is the Scoil's program..._

What followed was a 6-page pamphlet detailing every and all aspects of the school: the courses, year by year, with clearly identified goals. All members from the school's staff, including the teachers and the caretakers, were listed, with a short résumé showing their previous activities – and it shocked them to see Filius Flitwick there.

The school itself was situated to the north of the island, right at the end of the Giant's Causeway – the name of which was in fact accurate. The day-to-day life was presented as well, with references to the magical hamlet nearby – it wasn't that these wizards were wary of muggles, but the sheer number of people from non-human races was still making it difficult to mingle with muggles. Consequently, the school and the hamlet were hidden from prying eyes – which made the aforementioned causeway seem to go to nowhere.

Following the description of the hamlet were a series of suggestion for the parents of new students, depending on their proximity to the school. They could either put their children in school for morning and afternoon classes, for the whole day, for the week, or for the year. The doting parents could even rent a small house in the nearby village and stay close to their offspring that way.

Compared to the short missives from Hogwarts, it was very thorough... and the group of friends was greatly tempted to accept. A short discussion with their financial advisor – a goblin named Toothpick, who happened to have followed two years of the Scoil's program – was enough to tilt the scales in the favour of the Irish school.

Lily and Alice were quite happy for the children's well-being, too. The leaflet indicated that the course levels were very precise, and that students outranking their peers in a topic could take the following level – and it went in both directions. Since the school offered courses in several subjects, without placing limits to the number of topics studied, the students could spend from one to ten years in school. Some courses had prerequisites, though, such as each Advanced subject with their subject itself.

Of course, they also had "packages" which included common matters and often-used topics. One of these packages was labelled "pureblood angle-ish wizardry" and took only four years to complete. Upon close inspection, the Hogwarts alumni found out with surprise that it contained the most-often chosen courses of Hogwarts' curriculum.

Finally, they asked the two boys, who accepted readily – although it was for different reasons. Neville wanted to study everything related to plants, and, with his mother behind him, he selected only the courses he wanted, which would eventually allow him a Mastery in Herbology at the young age of 20 – he still had to learn the basics of Potions and Alchemy to know how herbs could be used and their properties therein.

Harry's first thoughts were about the house-elves' history. During the previous years, he had tried to discuss with some of them, but the discussion was always short-lived and frustrating. Perhaps, with house-elves in attendance, he could learn more about them. His second point of interest was the forest near the Scoil – which was, like the school and the village, hidden from the muggles.

Were there Elves in here?

Whether there were or not, he decided that he'd take advantage of the school system to learn everything that he had missed in his reintroduction to the wizarding world. And perhaps find new skills.

_**To be continued in next chapter: Overrated Education...**_

Author's Notes: _for those of you who speak Ch'timi, that wasn't Elvish spoken here, of course (winks).__ Thank you for the reviews. As you might have noticed, I decided to split the chapter in two. The next one will include Harry's first years in school, as well as snapshots of what is happening in Hogwarts._


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